


The Redemption of Dorian Gray

by the_cheshire_cat_grin



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Beautiful summer day, it ain't gonna stay that way tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2020-11-09 02:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cheshire_cat_grin/pseuds/the_cheshire_cat_grin
Summary: Let's wonder, for a moment, the direction young Dorian Gray's life would have taken if he had not become so obsessed with his own youth. Let's explore a man who has hurt those closest to him, who has hit rock bottom, and claws his way out, determined to become a better person.





	1. A New World View

It was a remarkably tedious thing to sit for Basil Hallward. The hours were spent in a silence that was only broken by the strokes of the artist’s brush and the occasional birdsong, drifting through the open windows on a blissfully cool breeze. As a result, young Dorian Gray was often bored, and so he passed the time by letting his mind wander to a variety of subjects. Sometimes he thought longingly of Basil’s piano, his fingers itching to play the tune that had been stuck in his head for the past few weeks, an original work that was still in its infancy. Other times he imagined he was a prince, and his portrait was to be the centerpiece for a grand ball. He imagined it hanging in a large, glittering ballroom, filled to the brim with sparkling laughter and joyous conversation, all of which would immediately cease the moment he entered the room. He would be met by a variety of fascinating characters, all of whom were dying to meet him. Actors and humanitarians, even the prime minister and the queen would vie for his attention. Yes, he would be known in all of England as the kind and benevolent Prince Dorian of House Gray, a curator of the arts.

Glancing over at Basil, who was hard at work, the lad could not help but wish he could bring him into his fantasy. He would introduce him to everyone within reach as the genius behind the painting, the mastermind, truly the finest painter in all of England, if not the entire world. Basil would blush in that way he did, unable to wrap his mind around such praise, but accepting it with modesty and grace. Everyone at the ball would rush forward, begging him for similar portraits, masterpieces to be hung in the foyers of their own estates, something to show off for generations to come. He would smile good-naturedly, but insist that he no longer painted portraits. “Mr. Gray is my masterpiece,” he would tell them. “His beauty, his grace, these are rarities I have no desire to search for in others. His portrait shall remain as he is, one of a kind.” Everyone would whimper and complain, but how could they argue? After all, the master painter was right. Dorian Gray was simply one of a kind. There was no one alive who could possibly follow in his footsteps.

This made Dorian chuckle, which prompted a frown from the painter. “Relax your mouth, Dorian,” he chided, and the lad sighed, doing as he was told. He knew any attempt at conversation would be met with absentminded murmurs and hums. Basil was not a man of many faults, but his conversational skills left something to be desired. When his eyes were fixed on his canvas, he scarcely thought of anything else. If Dorian were being honest, and he often tried to be, it was an admirable, if frustrating trait. There were not many in London who took so much care with their work.

With a gentle summer breeze wafting through the windows, and an endless supply of boredom seeping through his very being, Dorian decided to get out of his own head for a while, choosing instead to make conversation with Basil’s strange friend, Lord Henry Wotton. Dorian found him to be a fascinating fellow, with thoughts and ideas that he had never dreamed of before. The way he put it, the older man seemed to find morals exhausting and the unsavory delightful. Dorian thought this was a backwards way of thinking, but when Harry explained it, it made a strange sort of sense. After all, did the meaning of life not stem from the enjoyment and pleasure of the world? What kind of life was one living if it were not one of frolic and fun? However, Dorian could see from the furrow of Basil’s brow that he disagreed with Harry’s philosophy.

“Harry,” the artist muttered suddenly, glancing sharply at the man. “Do not corrupt the boy. I am entirely too fond of him to see him become one of your social experiments.”

“How perfectly horrid of you!” Harry cried. “Assuming I have any say in the inner workings of the human mind is a grand compliment, but vastly untrue. No one is capable of that which they do no want to do, and no one can be anything other than what they were meant to be. Ah, I can see the confusion in your eyes. Allow me to give an example. Imagine, if you will, a young woman taking a stroll through the countryside when, suddenly, she sees a rabbit snatched away by a hawk. This stirs something within her, and, upon returning to the city, she kidnaps and murders a young child. A horrifying prospect, indeed. Now, I ask you, who is the one who receives the murder charge? The young woman, or the hawk who put the foul idea in her head?”

Basil scowled. “That is hardly the same thing.”

“Of course it is,” Harry objected. “The hawk exists as nature intended it to, and the woman felt a basic, primal desire to experience that kind of freedom. To put it simply, the desire to rise above the constraints of society was already in her mind long before she witnessed the death of a rabbit.”

Dorian’s eyes were wide with horrified fascination. “Are you suggesting that murder is an inherent human trait? Surely not! I have never wished to end the life of any of my fellow man.”

“You will,” Harry stated with the upmost surety. “Yes, you look horrified now, but I assure you, the taking of life is a primal urge. Why do you suppose humanity can not go more than a decade without declaring war on one country or another? Man is quick to find any excuse it can to commit acts of violence without threat of lawful repercussions, and we are not the only species to do so. The bird eats the worm, the cat eats the bird, and so on and so forth. Murder exists in every species on Earth, yet it is man that has created such wildly intricate rituals to allow themselves to do so. Now, our original conversation was regarding the primal urges that reside in all of us. Yes, even you, Basil, with your haughty air of careful rationality. Though we humans have refined ourselves into sophisticated, domesticated creatures, we are every bit as animal as the lions that stalk the Savannah. Of course, humanity regards itself as above the animal kingdom, and this, I believe, will prove to one day be its downfall.”

Dorian was utterly enraptured. “How do you figure that?” he wondered. “Humanity appears to have gotten by well enough as it is.”

“For now,” Harry conceded. “Humanity was at its peak during the Roman Empire, and since its fall, we have regressed further into ourselves until, one day, and one day soon I suspect, we will not allow ourselves to feel or do anything. We will become empty-minded and dull, saying nothing of importance while we pour our tea and cross our legs. High society is the plague of humanity.”

“You are entirely too pessimistic, my friend,” Basil murmured, his attention once again absorbed into his painting.

Dorian, in contrast, was looking thoughtful. “But Harry, you are also a member of, as you say, high society. Do you not regard yourself as a plague?”

“Do not misunderstand my meaning,” Harry said. “The plague does not necessarily reside within the people, but rather the idea that the only life worth living is that of sophistication and refinement. I assure you, my boy, a life without allowing yourself to feel your most basic, primal desires is no life at all.”

“But you’ve just said it yourself!” the lad exclaimed suddenly.

“Relax your shoulders, Dorian,” Basil chided with a frown.

Dorian sighed, but did as he was told. “You’ve just said it yourself,” he said again. “That it is the idea of refinement that is the plague of humanity. Well, is that not what Basil was insisting earlier, that ideas are dangerous things? You have just contradicted yourself!”

Harry chuckled good naturedly. “My boy, what is life but a series of loosely related contradictions? Certainly, ideas can be poisonous things, when they are trying to shape someone into something they are not. Humanity has become so utterly warped by its obsession with refinement and sophistication that the very idea that one should allow themself the basic pleasures of life is viewed as radically abhorrent. My insistence at a pleasureful life is certainly not as poisonous as distorting oneself on the whims of an unfeeling hierarchy.”

Dorian pondered this for a while. “So, then,” he said finally. “You have made your disdain for high society abundantly clear, but I wonder. Do you view yourself as separated from society all together?”

Harry stared off thoughtfully. “I suppose the circumstances of my birth would insist upon my status as a high society individual, which I detest immeasurably. The lack of choice in the matter is particularly humiliating. Although, as I think about it, the only thing standing between myself and freedom from society’s suffocating grip would be my unfortunate amount of wealth, as well as my unfortunate aunt. She has her foot in the door of nearly every reputable household in London. Do not look at me like that, Basil. You know very well that, despite her many faults, she is no less dear to me. At any rate, it is astounding that the only thing required for high society status is wealth, and, to a lesser extent, the wealth and reputation of a relative. It is so insignificant, and yet so many spend their whole lives striving for it.”

“It is not such an easy thing to acquire,” Dorian disagreed. “It is even less so to maintain. There is so much etiquette to keep in one’s head, and one wrong move, or even the whisper of a wrong move, results in banishment from every social circle in London. One would not be able to go anywhere without a sneer of disdain following them.”

“Indeed, it is a delicate dance. Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to compare it to a game of chess. One must be incredibly quick witted in order to hold their place. As for finding a way in, well, marriage is the surest way. It takes little more than a charming smile and a pretty face to worm one’s way to the top. That’s all any marriage is for, after all. Creating the highest pedestal for yourself as possible.”

“How horrid!” Dorian cried. “I am not so naïve as to believe that every marriage in London is built on love, but rather opportunity. However, it is perfectly cynical to believe that there is no such thing as love. It exists everywhere!”

“Oh, love is alive and well,” Harry agreed. “At least, that is what I am led to believe. It is only within marriage that love festers and dies.”

“Harry!” Basil snapped, finally pulling his gaze away from his work. “Do not fill Dorian’s head with such pessimistic nonsense. Of course, life is not a fairytale. Marriage will always have its ups and downs, but in the end, the couple reemerges stronger than ever. Do not confuse your boredom with the death of love. Lady Henry is utterly devoted to you.”

“Devotion and duty are two entirely different things,” Harry said. “Forgive me Basil, for I am about to come off as incredibly callous, but of everyone in this room, I am the only one with any experience in marriage, and I tell you, I have yet to meet anyone who has expressed any real devotion to their spouse. They would all jump at the chance to run off with a younger, equally unfulfilling beauty.”

“I will be different,” Dorian decided. “Whoever my wife will end up being, I shall be utterly devoted to her. Everywhere she is shall be proclaimed holy ground, and every day will be a day of worship.”

Basil smiled at the lad, his eyes softening with affection. “What a lucky woman, then, to be so utterly adored,” he murmured. “I would not doubt your devotion for a moment.”

I applaud your nobility, but such a declaration fills me with dread,” Harry admitted. “You have the entire world before you, my friend. You, with your rosebud youth and outstanding good looks, simply can not be prepared to tie yourself down so quickly. It would be a tragedy. Give yourself ten, perhaps even twenty years to experience the world and all it has to offer.”

“Harry, you can not tell Dorian that he can not be married,” Basil chided with a scowl. “He is his own man, and certainly more than capable of determining on his own whether or not he is ready for marriage.”

“It is not as if I will marry just anyone,” the lad chimed in. “I will know in my heart who it is I am meant to be with. I will know it as well as I know myself.”

Harry reached for a biscuit, brought in on a tray surreptitiously placed by Basil’s servant, Parker, and leaned back in his seat, looking amused. “Spoken like a true romantic.”

It went on like this for several hours. Harry would spout something exceptionally profound, Basil would disagree wholeheartedly, and Dorian would offer his thoughts on the matter. It was becoming clear to the lad that Basil was growing increasingly frustrated with the constant chatter, but he could not help himself. He had never met anyone who said exactly what they were thinking, rather than dance timidly around a subject. Harry spoke his truth as if it were gospel, and he admired that. Eventually, he begged Basil for a moment to stretch his legs, and he followed his new friend out into the garden. They talked for nearly half an hour, and after a while, with his constant remarks regarding his looks, the lad began to get the sense that Harry was feeling resentful. “Pardon me, my friend,” he said. “I am aware of how ridiculous this sounds, but, well, the way you speak of me leads me think that you are jealous. Why is that?”

“Certainly not,” Harry said. “Envious? Perhaps. Just look at you, as golden as a summer afternoon, with eyes as wide and curious as a doe. You are in full bloom, and it fills me with a great sadness to know that it will not last. I pray that you will relish the person that you are now. Hold this moment close to you, and do not let it go. In but a blink, it will be gone.”

This made the lad feel a bit melancholy. “Well, certainly there is more to me than my youth,” he said hesitantly. “Adulthood has its charms, and I am eager to experience them all.”

“Such as what?” Harry wondered, taking a sip of his lemonade.

Dorian thought long and hard, but, for the life of him, he could not come up with a single answer. “Well, there’s…” he trailed off uncertainly. Just then, the answer came to him. “Well, there is travel! I so long to travel the world, particularly Italy. I have always wanted to see the Italian country side, especially the vineyards.”

“And I have no doubt you will love it,” Harry said, tapping thoughtfully against his glass. “But how long do you suppose you can keep that up? How many countries will you be able to visit before your breath becomes shorter, your legs become weaker? All the exploring you wish to do must be done now, while you still have your boundless energy. Otherwise, the world will pass you by, and you will be left to stare after in bitter melancholy.”

Dorian gazed out at the garden, his heart filling with dread. All at once, it hit him, everything he had never done, and he had so little time to accomplish them now. Just like that, all of his dreams seemed so out of reach. “Oh, Harry,” he whisper in despair. “It pains me, how right you are. What am I to do?”

Harry sighed and leaned back in his seat, following the lad’s gaze out into the garden where the butterflies flocked to the lavender. “As much as you can, my boy,” he answered solemnly. “It is all any of us are capable of doing.”

Finally, Basil called for them to return to the studio, and Dorian shuffled unhappily inside. Three quarters of an hour passed in heavy silence. Harry pondered quietly, Basil feverishly contemplated, and Dorian was lost in unhappy thoughts. Finally, after what felt like hours, Basil set down his brush and regarded his painting. “It is done,” he said softly.

“Is it?” Harry wondered, going to stand behind the artist’s shoulder. “Done, indeed. My God, Basil. It is a masterpiece.”

“What’s that?” Dorian murmured, as if emerging from sleep. “It is finished?”  
“Quite finished,” Harry said with a smile. “Come over here, my boy, and take a look at yourself.”

Dorian and stood and went to join the two men, eyes widening in quiet astonishment. Harry had not been exaggerating when he had said it was a masterpiece. Basil had captured him perfectly, right down to the gray flecks in his eyes, the subtle freckles that dusted his nose, even the way the dust swirled in the afternoon sunlight. He was at a loss for words. It was as if Basil had captured his very soul.

“What do you think, my friend?” the artist asked, his face glowing with pride. “You sat so well for me. Truly, you have never sat better. You were magnificent.”

Dorian stared silently at the piece, until, suddenly, he burst into tears.

Basil took a startled step back, looking upset. “What is it?” he cried. “You do not like it? But Dorian, you look wonderful.”

“Undeniably so,” Harry agreed. “Why, I am tempted to buy it from you.”

“Of course not,” Basil said. “It belongs to Dorian. No one in the world has anymore right to it than him.” He glanced worriedly at the lad. “That is, if he wants it.”

“If I want it!” Dorian cried, turning his back on the piece. “It is so beautiful I can not bare to look upon it! It is as if you have exposed my very soul to the world. It is perfect.”

“Perfect,” Basil repeated, staring warily at the lad. “Why, then, do you weep as if you are stricken with grief?”

“Because grief has overcome me!” he sobbed. “Even now, I am older than the man who sits within the portrait. I will never be as I was then, just as I will never again be as I am now. It taunts me with its beauty, its easy grace.” Flinging himself onto the sofa, he declared, “Oh, how I wish to be the man within the portrait! Let my body remain as it is now, and let the portrait be the one who grows haggard and gray!”

Basil shot an angry glance at Harry. “What did you say to him?” he demanded.

Harry shrugged. “I said nothing that was not wholly true.”

“This is not the Dorian Gray I know.”

“Of course not. That is because it is the real Dorian Gray.”

“Nonsense. You have upset him a great deal.”

“Goodness, look at the two of you! So out of sorts from a collection of pigments on a canvas. The boy does not want it. I will take it.”

At this, Dorian flung himself to his feet and stood between the man and the portrait, as if to protect it. “Absolutely not!” he cried. “It is mine, and mine alone. Basil, tell Harry the painting is mine. I shall never forgive you if you give it away”

“Dorian, don’t be silly,” Basil said. “The portrait belonged to you the moment my brush touched the canvas, possibly even before then.”

“Do not call me silly,” Dorian grumbled, finally turning to face the portrait. “I am not silly. I am overcome. It is better than me in every way.” He almost wanted to reach out to touch it, but he knew the paint was still wet, and even if it were not, he was afraid his touch would somehow ruin it, making it somehow less pure.

“What a perfectly dramatic pair you are,” Harry said, looking back and forth between them in confusion. “Your friendship makes more and more sense to me the more you two speak. I believe I need a reprieve from such theatrics. I will be out in the garden should you need me. Dorian, do feel free to join me once you have collected yourself.”

Harry left, and Basil was left to stare after the lad. “Be honest, Dorian,” he said finally. “Do you really not like it?”

“I love it,” he answered, unable to tear his eyes away, even as the sight of the portrait made him ache. “I love it more than perhaps anything in the world.”

“But it makes you so unhappy.”

“It is not your fault that I am unhappy. It is not even the portrait’s fault. It is only…” The lad sighed. “I do not know what I am trying to say. You crafted it so lovingly. I can not help but wonder, when it is gone, will you miss it? When we sit and talk and drink our tea, will it be me you are thinking of, or the portrait?”

Basil shook his head. “Dorian, you are speaking nonsense. Obviously, you are much more than some pigments on canvas. I would much rather spend time with you than a mere picture of you.”

“Of course, you say that now,” Dorian snapped. “But what of a year from now? Ten years? How much time will pass before you look at me and decide you like the portrait better, with its cheery eyes and youthful smile?”

“Dorian,” Basil said firmly. “I am not sure what it is that Harry has said to you, but you will always remain my friend. A hundred years could pass, and I would still look upon you as my truest and dearest friend.”

“A hundred years!” Dorian cried, throwing himself back onto the loveseat. “Yes, you will have a friend, and what will I have? I will be little more than dust, unable to do anything or be anything, if I am not already rotting away in the ground.”

“Dorian!” Basil looked surprised. “How morbid of you. That is decades from now. Why are you so worked up about it now?”

“Now is all I have,” Dorian answered, his voice muffled as he buried his face in a small throw pillow. “Now is the only thing I have left. It is as Harry said. I need to experience the world before I waste away into nothing. But there is so much to do, Basil. There is so much of this world to see, and I have experienced so little of it.”

“I see,” Basil murmured. He was quiet for a moment, then, finally, he said, “Dorian, Harry is a great many things, but all-knowing is not necessarily one of them.”

“How can you say that?” Dorian cried, tears spilling over and staining the pillow. “Every word he speaks is the truth. Without my youth, what am I? Just another wrinkled, bitter creature, content with nothing, and longing for everything. My heart will turn black with envy at the younger folk as I watch them revel and play as I once did.”

Basil watched Dorian unhappily as he lamented. “Curse Harry for your despair,” he said angrily. “Just before you arrived this afternoon, I urged him to hold his tongue, to spare you his grand philosophies, and yet he persisted, such as he always does. I imagine he enjoys the misery of others.”

Dorian glanced at Basil in surprise. He had never heard the artist utter such bitter words before, especially in regards to someone he viewed as a friend. “What are you saying? He merely gave light to what I was too blind to see for myself.”

“No,” Basil said firmly. “He always does this, and I always begrudge him for it. He takes simple moments, beautiful moments, moments that should be spent simply enjoying one another’s company, and he ruins them by attempting to assign some grand meaning to it all. Or, even worse, he will spin a tale as to why this moment is actually a waste of the few precious years we have left in our youth. Yes, it is true. He may speak as if he lives wildly just for the sake of living a grand, exciting life, but therein lies his hypocrisy. His meaning is that there is no meaning. He lives for one thing, and that is chaos. However, should anyone dare to live their life in a way that differs from his own, well, you already know, don’t you? He loves to study these people, feigning interest, but inside he is greatly disgusted. You see, he treats people like experiments in the grand scientific endeavor of life, yet he himself does so little living. He is a watcher, Dorian, obsessed with unraveling the secrets of the world, yet unwilling to put in the work for himself. He prods and whispers his twisted words, then sits back to watch the aftermath in sickening curiosity and delight. Do not think yourself so shallow that you are simply a pretty face. You, Dorian Gray, are so much more than your youth.”

Dorian regarded Basil with something like wonder. For such a soft-spoken fellow, his words were fierce, almost vengeful. There was a light in his eyes that he had never seen before, and the lad decided that there was much more to the artist than he had previously thought. “So, what then?” he asked. “You believe beauty and youth to be irrelevant? Truly, Basil, you can not expect me to believe that an artist such as yourself has no interest in lovely things, that you do not try to hold on to them as closely as you can.”

“Of course I do,” Basil responded. “I am, after all, a human being. But to hold on to beauty? That is beyond us. This, my friend, is why I am a painter. All we can do is capture little moments. Admire and marvel at the memory of it, but move on when it is over. Tell me, as the wind turns bitter, and the leaves begin to fall, do we not long for the coming Winter, with its glittering snowfall and grand dinner parties, celebrating the birth of the Lord? Of course, there will be nostalgia for the dying summer, but we take our solace knowing that life, and living, is a circle. These moments, such as the cherry blossoms in Spring, or the golden hour over the wheat fields, this is what we stay alive for.”

Dorian was silent for a while, considering this. He was still greatly upset, but he supposed Basil made a good point. Indeed, how shallow could he be to believe that the only worthwhile thing about himself was something that would fade away in two decades time at most? “You said there was much more to me than my youth. What did you mean by that?”

Basil flushed and averted his gaze. “My meaning is plain,” he said simply.

Dorian scowled and stood in a huff. “I wish to know, Basil. You said it yourself. I am ‘more than my youth’. Well, what more is there? Who am I without my looks? What worth do I have without my youth? I beg of you, Basil, tell me!”

The young man looked close to tears, and Basil could no longer stay silent. “You have a radiant soul,” he confessed. “You are a lover of music and the arts, and you are a man that feels so much and so strongly that it consumes your very being. You ask, dear Dorian, who you are without your boyish youth and angelic face. I say, you are Apollo, curator of the arts, and maker of music. Tell me, do you believe Apollo is ruled by something as trivial as appearance?”

Dorian could not help but feel a bit flattered, although he believed it was rather unfair to be compared to someone as beautifully immortal as Apollo himself. Even so, a tiny part of him began to wonder if perhaps Basil was right. Was he truly just being shallow? If so, what did that make Harry, who had tried so vehemently to persuade him to his way of thinking?

“Let me ask you this, Basil,” Dorian began slowly. “It is plain to see that you hold contempt for Harry’s philosophy. Why, then, do the two of you insist on remaining friends?”

Basil scowled and stared out the window as dusk began to paint the sky in hues of violet and gold. “I would hardly say I have any choice in the matter. Once Harry has his sights set on one of his little projects, he rarely turns away. I could not shake him off if I tried.

Dorian regarded the older man with surprise. “You detest him.”

Basil sighed and shook his head. “Not truly,” he admitted. “Even if I wanted to, I could never truly hate him, not with his charming ways and deceptive personality. The man is one of my oldest friends, and though it pains me to say it, he knows me better than anyone. He is harmless, truly, but it is best to take his advice with a grain of salt.”

The two men stood in silence for a while as Dorian’s mind spun with this new information. Finally, he said, “You must think me foolish.”

“Certainly not,” the older man assured him. “Perhaps a bit misguided, but that is in no way your fault. Harry is a poisonous influence. I have always told him as much.”

“I do not think he is so terrible,” Dorian disagreed. “I think he is honest.”

“That may be because you do not know him as well as I do.” Basil sighed, looking incredibly tired. “Perhaps I sound cruel, but my words to do not come from a place of ignorance. I have known Harry a very long time, and I consider him to be one of my closest friends. I believe he balances me out, and gets me out of my own head for a bit. But, my friend, you must understand. One should only heed him in small doses. If you are not careful, he will slowly seep his way into every part of your life.”

“I can not help but feel as if you are being a bit dramatic,” Dorian confessed. “Harry is by far the most interesting person I have ever met. Dare I say, he may be a genius.” He blushed when he said this, afraid he had been too bold. “At any rate, he invited me to dinner tonight while we were out in the garden, and I happily accepted. I look forward to hearing more of his thoughts, as brutally honest as they may be.”

“Tonight?” Basil’s eyes widened. “I was hoping we could dine tonight, in celebration of your portrait’s completion.”

“Oh.” Dorian did not wish to hurt his friend’s feelings, but he would much rather spend the evening with Harry. He had spent the last two months in Basil’s company, and he was certain that they had exhausted all topics of conversation. He knew the artist almost as well as he knew himself, and he could not help feeling a bit bored. “Well, of course you are welcome to join us. We will be off to the theatre afterwards.”

Basil bit his lip, looking worried. “I think,” he said suddenly, “that I should like it very much if you were to dine with me instead.”

Dorian frowned. “But Basil,” he protested. “ I have already promised Harry that I would dine with him tonight.”

“It will make no difference to him,” Basil insisted. “He loathes those who keep their appointments. He finds them perfectly dull.” He stared at the lad beseechingly.

Dorian twisted his fingers nervously, glancing back at the garden where he knew Harry was waiting. “I do not want to be a person who breaks their promises, Basil. Surely you understand.”

“Yes, of course,” the artist murmured, trying not to look as unhappy as he felt. “I understand completely. It is only…” He trailed off uncertainly. “Perhaps I could see you tomorrow?”

Dorian thought Basil was behaving very strangely. “Yes, certainly,” he promised. “For dinner or tea?”

“Dinner,” Basil answered. “There is much I would like to discuss with you, and tea feels much too informal for what I have to say.”

The date was set, and Dorian turned to rejoin Harry in the garden, leaving Basil to stare after him with a great sense of melancholy.


	2. The Casualties of Idealism

Dinner with Basil proved to reveal nothing of great importance. The way the artist had spoken the other day had led Dorian to believe that he had a pressing matter to discuss with him, but he only flushed in that way he did when he was nervous, and congratulated him once again for the completion of the portrait. He scarcely met the lad’s gaze throughout the entirety of their dinner, and Dorian could not help but think perhaps he was embarrassed by him, that his outburst in his studio had soured his opinion of him. He tried to not let this bother him, but the perceived rejection stung. He felt that, now that the portrait was complete, there was nothing left of him that the artist would find interesting. Yes, he had insisted that their friendship would last for one hundred years, but one hundred years was quite a long time to talk about nothing, especially when they already knew everything about each other.

This was no matter. It had been a month since Dorian had become acquainted with Lord Henry Wotton, and he felt as if he had spent his whole life in a deep slumber, only to be awakened into a dizzying display of color and light. Harry had opened his eyes to a whole new way of being, and he felt like a child again, exploring the world and all it had to offer. The flowers smelled sweeter, the birdsong sounded lighter, and even the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter, which was indeed a rarity for London, even in the midsummer. The lad felt as if he were walking on air, and it was not simply because of his newfound friendship with Harry. He had well and truly fallen in love, and her name was Sybil Vane.

Dorian felt that it had been fate that had pulled him into the crumbling theatre that night. It was certainly not for any expectation of a particularly entrancing performance, but the gentleman outside had been so insistent, and it was not as if he had anything else to do. And then, like a breath of fresh air, there she was. He felt certain he could not look away from her even if he had wanted to, and he certainly did not want to. He had never seen such a display of theatrical genius in all his twenty-one years. She was the diamond amongst the coal, for her cast mates did not share even a fraction of her passion. She did not merely pretend to be her character, she became them. For roughly two to three hours a night, Sybil Vane ceased to be, and in her place stood young Juliet, gentle Eurydice, and poor Ophelia. He hadn’t the words to describe what such artful majesty did to him, and so, he called it love. He knew he had to meet her at once.

And, oh, what a lovely thing she was. As passionate and fierce as she was on the stage, she was a soft-spoken thing in person, bashful and timid. Dorian offered up every praise, and her face flushed a pretty shade of pink, endearing her to him more so than he thought possible. He decided then and there that he had to see her as often as possible, and so he did. Week after week, he reserved his same box, and watched her weave her magic that transported him into another time, another world. Every night, she took his breath away, and he wracked his brain for something, anything to do that would show her just how wholeheartedly he adored her. And one day, as he happened across a small jewelry shop, the idea struck him like a bolt of lightening. He bought a ring then and there, and that night he bent his knee, professing a love so profound it moved her to tears. She squealed in affirmation, bouncing up and down like an excitable young rabbit, and the two embraced, picturesque in their joy.

The young man flew like a bird to his friends to gush about his newfound love. Basil appeared startled by the revelation, but he remained endlessly supportive. “She certainly must be a remarkable young women to have won your affections so entirely,” he assured him, with something almost sad in his eyes. Dorian wondered if perhaps Basil felt a bit a lonely, and he made a silent vow to keep his eyes open for another stunningly beautiful young woman for him to find companionship with. Perhaps Sybil knew of a young artist or two that would understand him better than anyone.

Harry, of course, was another matter entirely. Dorian was not entirely sure what he had expected his reaction to be, however, he was startled to see a slight curl to the lip, almost as if he was disgusted by the news. “My dear boy,” he said earnestly. “You are entirely too young to fall in love. It is as if you have contented yourself with the lone dandelion, unaware of the rolling acres of wildflowers before you.”

“Harry, you are perfectly horrid!” Dorian exclaimed. “Sybil Vane, a dandelion! She reminds me much more of a sunflower, full of light and commanding attention. You speak out of ignorance. If you saw her, you would see what I see in her.”

Harry merely snorted at this, and Dorian left in a huff. He did not care for Harry’s pessimistic views on love and romance. After all, what made him the expert? He spoke of his own wife with such nonchalant dislike, as if she were an inconvenient plant, pretty to look at, but a hassle to care for. That sort of sentiment made Dorian burn with fury. When he thought of Sybil, all he could think of was her charm, her genius, and, of course, her exquisite beauty. He did not feel hindered by his love for her. He felt enlightened.

Finally, he decided that the best way for his friends to understand his wild adoration for the stunning actress was for them to see her as he saw her, in her prime. Without a second thought, he bought three tickets to her next show and informed the two men that they would be accompanying him to her performance in Romeo and Juliet. Basil, to his credit, seemed satisfied in merely supporting his friend, but Harry looked much more skeptical. Of course, he trusted the lad implicitly, but he was, after all, still a boy, and had much yet to learn about the world and its residents.

Throughout the entire carriage ride, Dorian chattered nonstop about his newfound love. Basil, unfortunately, had gotten stuck in the hansom behind them, so Harry alone was left to smile and nod. Despite himself, a feeling began to grow in him. Not excitement. That was not an emotion Harry experienced often, if ever. No, what he felt was closer to curiosity. Surely, this girl would prove to be a rarity. Young Dorian was an excitable creature, but, to his credit, he never embellished. He spoke the truth as he experienced it, which Harry found immensely charming, if somewhat misleading.

Finally, the carriage rolled to a stop, and the two men hopped out. Basil pulled up just behind them, and he walked up to Dorian, who appeared starry-eyed and dreamy. “Why, look at you,” he said, smiling softly at the lad. “You are positively glowing. I must admit, when you described the theatre in which your girl resides, I was a bit skeptical. But, to see you like this, I have no doubt she is nothing short of the finest actress in London.”

“The world, Basil, the world!” the lad corrected him, playfully nudging the artist on his arm. “Your faith in me, and, by extension, in the exquisite Sybil Vane, is not only deeply appreciated, but also greatly admirable.” He shot a glare a Harry before saying, “Much more so than Harry’s horrid cynicism. Yes, you laugh, but I have seen it all night, my friend. That twinkle in your eye that betrays your skepticism.”

“Awfully bold words, my friend,” Harry could not help but laugh. “I would much prefer, ‘well versed in the folly of the human condition’. I have yet to meet a human being who is as everyone believes them to be. I do, however, hope to leave the theatre tonight feeling pleasantly surprised.”

“You will, Harry,” Dorian insisted. “You both will. Believe me, you will feel as if you have spent your whole lives in a dream, only to finally awaken.”

With this in mind, the three men entered the theatre. Amongst a crowd of rowdy theatre goers, they made their way to the box seat that management left reserved especially for Dorian. As they took their seats, Harry looked around at the audience below. “Well,” he began. “This place is not exactly a palace, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. Much of humanity’s intricate beauty takes place not in cathedrals or palaces, but in the lowest hovels of depravity. This is where we find we can truly be ourselves.”

“Being oneself is hardly the point of theatre,” Basil objected, removing his gloves. “After all, we are paying these people to become someone else entirely.”

“I must admit,” Dorian chimed in, his eyes already eagerly scanning the stage for his beloved. “I believe you are both right, and I believe you are both wrong. I have spoken to Sybil quite often, and I can tell you, she is never more herself than when she is on the stage. Why, in person, she is as meek as a dormouse, which, while is absolutely endearing, is utterly at odds when she stands upon her balcony, lamenting the circumstances of her lover’s birth.” He regarded the stage now, staring wistfully as if she were there now. “On stage, that shy nature melts away, and she positively soars.”

Basil regarded the young man with a strange sort of melancholy affection. “I do truly hope this girl is worthy of your affections,” he said softly, as if he had not meant to say the words aloud.

“She is, Basil,” the lad assured him. “She truly is.”

Just then, the orchestra flared, and the show began. The rest of the company was a dreadful sight, a handful staring dead-eyed and bored as they delivered their lines. In particular, the young fellow who played Romeo obviously thought entirely too much of himself. He boasted about the stage, acting as if he were some undiscovered sensation that would soon take the world by storm, despite the fact that he forgot most of his lines and had to, poorly, ad lib for the rest of the scene. Dorian could see Basil and Harry were uncomfortable with the mediocre performance, but this only made the lad more excited. Sybil’s unremarkable cast mates were the void that allowed her to shine twice as bright.

Finally, they arrived to the scene of the masquerade ball, and Dorian let out a breath at the sight of her. There she was, dark hair pulled high with two long strands perfectly framing her face. “There she is,” he murmured, barely loud enough for his companions to hear. “My lovely Sybil.”

“She is certainly beautiful,” Basil agreed with what almost sounded like surprise, as if he had thought perhaps the lad were exaggerating.

“Indeed,” Harry murmured, his eyes tracking the actress’s every move. “Like a diamond among the coal. However, I must admit, I am less than impressed.”

Dorian scowled without looking away. “You will see,” he promised. “It is when she speaks that the true magic happens.”

Finally, it was time for the balcony scene, and the lad leaned forward in his seat. From her perch on the stage, the young lady met his gaze, and her expression was one of utter adoration. Dorian held his breath, waiting for the immortal words of a woman in love, lamenting the petty feud that separated her from her beloved.

Opening her mouth, Sybil began what Dorian believed to be the most atrocious monologue he had ever heard. Her stark, passionless voice startled the lad so deeply that he flinched, as if she had physically struck him, and he heard below the gasps of the theatregoers.

Beside him, Basil winced. “Oh…well,” he stammered, wracking his brain for something to say that would not offend the boy. “Perhaps she is not feeling well tonight.”

“She looks perfectly healthy to me,” the lad croaked out, unable to wrap his mind around the change. Just yesterday, she had been a phenomenal, bringing the whole theatre to a standing ovation. Now, the audience jeered in contempt, unimpressed with such a mediocre display. “I don’t understand. What is she doing?”

“Perhaps she is having an off night,” Harry offered, but it was hard to miss the curl of disgust in his lip, as if he had smelled something rancid.

Dorian felt his fists clench against his knees. “Sybil Vane does not have ‘off nights’” he insisted, growing increasingly upset. Even the Romeo appeared taken aback by her change in demeanor, glancing worriedly back and forth between her and the crowd. Just what was she thinking? She was certainly a bright girl, so she was undoubtedly aware of the how poorly she was performing, and yet, she just kept going on, yowling like an alley cat as the crowd booed their disgust. Why had she decided to do this now, on the one night he had decided to bring his friends? They must have thought him completely mad to have fallen so hastily in love with someone so talentless. “She has never been like this before,” he explained desperately. “She is usually so splendid.”

“She’s certainly splendid in comparison to her cast mates,” Harry allowed, but he made almost no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice.

“Harry, don’t be so callous,” Basil chided. He turned to Dorian, looking sympathetic. “Never mind him, my friend. She’s certainly a lovely young lady. We will come another night, when she is feeling more like herself.”

Dorian said nothing, could say nothing. He merely stared at the stage, his brow furrowed in angry bewilderment. As the curtain closed, signaling the end of the second act, he could feel his friends staring at him, as if to silently beg, “Please do not make us stay any longer.” Without looking at either man, he said shortly, “You two need not stay any longer. I am terribly sorry to have wasted your evening.”

Harry, looking relieved, stood and grabbed his coat. Basil, however, remained where he was. “Are you certain, my friend?” he asked. “I can certainly stay if you wish.”

“There is nothing that detests me more than the thought of subjecting you to any more of this wretched display,” Dorian answered bitterly, so much so that the artist’s eyes widened in surprise. Even so, he stood and reached for his coat.

As the two men took their leave, Harry looked back at the young man with sympathy. “It really is a pity,” he said. “She certainly is a very beautiful girl, but she can not act to save her life.”

The words hit the lad like a slap in the face. How shallow he must appear, having raved so vehemently about Sybil Vane, only for his friends to view her as a complete and utter fraud. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they believed it had been her extraordinary beauty that had left him so star struck, not her superior acting ability. His face burned, angry and embarrassed in equal measure as she gallivanted across the stage like a show pony, seeming oblivious to the crowd’s jeers. It felt like a betrayal, seeing her like this.

Finally, after several excruciatingly long hours, the curtain dropped, and the lights flickered back on. The theatre became full of disappointed murmurs and shouts, unbelieving that they had actually spent money on such a pathetic excuse for a show. Pushing through the crowd, Dorian made his way backstage where he knew Sybil would be waiting for him, still wearing her funeral dress. Finally, he found her in her dressing room, undoing her hair from the complicated braid it had been tied up in. She lit up at the sight of him and asked, “Oh, there you are, my love! What did you think of the show?”

“I think you have made a perfect fool out of me,” he admitted, unable to look her in the eye.

Unbelievably, the girl laughed, and Dorian’s eyes widened in fury. “My misfortune amuses you?” he demanded, fists clenched at his sides.

“My darling, you could never be taken for foolish,” she assured him, voice soft and sweet as honey. “Of course, you understand what I was doing, don’t you?”

“Doing?” he repeated, flabbergasted. Was she actually toying with him? “I was not aware you were doing anything. You certainly were not doing your best.”

Sybil laughed again, and Dorian began to wonder if perhaps she were not as smart as he had thought. “Of course I did,” she insisted, going to him and holding his hands close to her heart. “I did everything in my power to make those empty, hollow words mean something, but you see, my dear, sweet prince, I am no longer a girl pretending to be in love. I am a woman, fully grown, and the love in my heart is more powerful than anything I have ever known. That is why I performed as I did tonight, for my final show.”

“Final show?” Dorian asked, incredulous. “You are quitting the stage? Why on Earth would you do that?”

“I thought that would be obvious,” she answered, that oblivious smile still painting her face. “I have simply outgrown it. My days playing a child in love are behind me. Now, all I want is to be your wife, to give you my unending love and support.”

Dorian pulled his hands free, startled by the amount of disgust he felt toward her. “What about what I want?” he demanded. “Had that ever occurred to you?” He stomped away and threw himself into the armchair tucked in the corner. “No, of course you didn’t. Your only concern was to appear clever. Clever Sybil, making a fool of the gentleman who would have her as his wife.”

The girl furrowed her brow, as if finally realizing how upset he was. “What are you saying, my love?” she wondered, moving toward him. “I did it for us. How am I meant to romance Romeo when it is you who occupies my every waking thought?”

“That is not for me to answer!” he snapped, burying his head in his hands. “This was an act of betrayal. You were never more grotesque to me than when you pranced across that stage, spouting your empty, hollow words.”

Sybil blanched. “I…what are you saying?”

“Do you know how I raved of you?” the young man exploded, his eyes wide with miserable fury. “I talked the ear off of anyone who would listen about how utterly gifted you were. Why, I even invited my two closest friends here tonight, hoping they would see what I saw; a genius among the rabble.”

Sybil reached out for the lad, but he pulled away, his expression pained. “Imagine how foolish I looked, to see you walk out on that stage, as lovely as a rose, and give what was certainly the worst performance in all of London.”

The girl fell to her knees before him, hands resting against his knees as she said, “I am so terribly sorry to have surprised you in such a way, my darling. Truly, I thought you would be pleased. You must understand, you are the only thing that matters to me. No one else’s opinion matters in the slightest, not as a woman, nor as an artist.”

“You are no woman,” Dorian growled. He wished he could pull away from her, but he was trapped against the chair. “You are a child, merely playing at being an adult. You know nothing of the world, and you know nothing of love.”

Sybil’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s not true!” she cried. “I am much older and wiser now for having loved you. I would not be who I am now if not for you.”

“Stop,” Dorian said shortly. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, as if he had not slept in days. “Please, I beg of you. I do not wish to be cruel, but I can bare this no longer. What are you now, without your extraordinary talent? You are simply another pretty face, and what is that worth to me?”

“No,” the girl whispered, tears beginning to spill down her rosy cheeks. “No, my love, there is so much more to me! Please, allow me to show you. Give me a chance to show you!”

Dorian stared at her, this mess of a girl with tears streaming down her face, clinging to his legs like prisoner begging for her life, and he wondered how he could had fallen so quickly in love with her. “Let me up, Sybil. I am leaving now, and I will not be coming back. It is for the best.”

“Please do not leave me here, my prince!” she sobbed, staring up in desperation. “You are my love! You are my entire life!”

As gently as he could, Dorian pushed her away as he stood. She looked a mess, with strands of hair sticking to her tear-streaked face as she lay in a heap against the chair. The sight disgusted him. “You are not who I thought you were,” he decided with a tone of finality. “Forget me, Sybil, as I will pray to forget you.” With that, he turned and strode out the door, leaving her to weep on that dirty dressing room floor.

The air was humid when Dorian finally made his way back outside, choking him and making him feel incredibly claustrophobic. It was getting late, but he was certain that sitting in a cab would only exacerbate his claustrophobia, so he decided to walk home. It was a good half hour from his house, but he did not mind at all. He used the time to attempt to clear his head. He could not fathom how he had misjudged Sybil Vane so entirely. How could someone with so much potential remain so entirely one-dimensional? It felt like a betrayal, throwing all that made her a superior actress away in some grand, passionate gesture.

Groaning, the lad dragged a hand across his face as he made his way down the street. The whole affair had been so incredibly embarrassing. He could only imagine what his friends thought of him. Basil, of course, would attempt to spare his feelings, but the pitying look in his eyes would betray his thoughts; that he believed the lad to be a foolish, infatuated child, concerned only with one’s appearance and nothing more. He would look at him and see only a vapid, shallow child.

Infuriatingly, tears began to prick at the lad’s eyes, and he rubbed them away furiously. He refused to let himself weep over her. After all, what would Harry say if he saw him? Basil would try his hardest to cheer him up, but Harry would merely shake his head, his expression a mix of curiosity and disgust. “To think a woman, little more than a child, really, would have such an effect on you,” he would chide, making the lad feel even more foolish than he already did.

Dorian clenched his fists and shoved his hands in his pockets. No, he would not let himself despair over Sybil’s betrayal. He would allow himself the night to grieve, but by tomorrow he would be a new man, with Sybil and her wretched performance existing only as an unpleasant memory. So, for the time being, he allowed himself to feel the whirlwind of fury and despair that raged inside of him, and he felt a strange sort of peace in knowing it would not last.

Coming upon his front steps, he unlocked the door and headed inside, glad to finally be alone without the eyes of the world watching him. As he hung up his coat, he thought perhaps he should sit down to dinner, but he did not have much of an appetite. Instead, he swiped an apple from the kitchen and headed straight to room. He sat down at his desk and began to flip through the variety of letters that awaited his attention, when something strange suddenly caught his eye.

Setting down his apple, he stood and went to where the portrait was leaning against the wall. He had been meaning to find an appropriate place to hang it, but had been understandably distracted during the past few weeks. Now, however, he studied the piece. Something about it seemed different, but he could not quite figure out what it was. It looked colder, somehow, not as carefree as it had once been. That could not possibly be right, and Dorian went off to find a cloth to wipe it down with, thinking perhaps it had merely been accumulating dust. As he wiped the portrait down, he caught the eye of the young man within, and he froze. Where there had once been a lighthearted smile, the mouth was now twisted into a cruel, disgusted sneer, as if he, the subject, had caught sight of a rat in his kitchen.

Slowly, Dorian reached up and traced the line of the mouth with his finger. Had his mouth always looked like that? But then again, he could not imagine Basil incorporating such a ugly detail into what he referred to as his masterpiece, especially as often as he complimented the lad for his almost cherub-like features. So then, how did it appear?

He thought perhaps the weather had warped the image, as it had been uncharacteristically humid as of late, but if that were the case, wouldn’t the rest of the portrait change as well? He thoroughly inspected every inch of the piece, but no, only the mouth had changed. How could that be?

Dorian shook his head and stood, returning to his desk. Surely his imagination had gotten the better of him. It had been an exceedingly long day and he had grown quite exhausted, so he decided to simply finish his apple and go to bed.

However, the next morning, he returned to the portrait and gasped, his entire body going cold. Yes, there it was, the subtle twist of his lip that made him appear disgusted and cruel. The lad was unable to look away as his thoughts swirled around his mind like an angry horde of bees. Somehow, the portrait had changed, but he could not understand how, or why. As he studied the cold, unfeeling face, a horrible thought occurred to him. Was this how he had appeared to Sybil just the night before? The idea that his face could be twisted into such cruelty made his stomach churn, and he decided then and there to find her and apologize. How utterly shallow he had been, to place the entirety of her value in only one aspect of herself. Perhaps she had not been what he had expected, but she was just as gentle and kind as she had always been, and whether or not she was a talented actress no longer mattered. He could learn to love her as she was, and they would both be content.

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Victor entered with a tray full of letters. “Good day, Monsieur,” he said, handing the young man his mail. “Here are your messages. I am told Lord Henry Wotton has a matter of great urgency to discuss with you. I have left his message here for you.”

“Thank you, Victor,” Dorian mumbled, setting the letters on the desk. As the servant bowed and left, the lad looked thoughtfully at Harry’s letter. He did not want to read it. Undoubtedly it was filled with something horrible and fascinating, and he did not care to be horrified or fascinated at the moment. Instead, he shoved the letters to the side and began to compose a letter of his own to Sybil. He wrote and rewrote for hours, unable to capture exactly what it was he wanted to tell her. Finally, he decided to simply be honest. Composing a letter of heartbreak and contrition, he detailed how he detested the way he had behaved the previous night, and he explained how desperate he was to make amends.

He had just finished reading over the letter, finding it as satisfactory as it could be, when he heard a great pounding at his door.

“Dorian!” Harry cried out. “Please, open the door. “It is positively heart-wrenching, seeing you hidden away like some kind of hermit.”

Dorian sighed and stood, opening the door to see Harry watching him worriedly. “There you are my friend,” the older man sighed in relief. “I grew concerned when I did not hear from you.”

“Save your concern, Harry,” the lad said resolutely, returning to his desk. “I am in no need of it. Everything is clear now, as if the dreary, gray clouds have parted to finally reveal the sun. I was perfectly horrid. Do not frown like that, it is the truth. It was selfish and cruel of me to view Sybil Vane as nothing more than the parts she played on stage. She is wholly herself, flawed and unique, and truly, is that not what makes us human? I am going to her now to make amends.”

“Make amends?” Harry repeated, looking confused. “But, Dorian-“

“Not another word from you, Harry,” Dorian interrupted, grabbing the letter. “I do not care to hear your cynical words about love and marriage. In fact, I would like very much if you never spoke a word of either subject to me again. Now, if you will excuse me, I must deliver this letter to Sybil.”

Harry stared at the boy, looking perfectly flabbergasted. “I-Dorian, haven’t you received my letter? I had my man deliver it himself.”

“Ah, yes,” the lad said, waving away the older man’s question with a flip of his wrist. “To be frank, I had no interest in reading it. No doubt you had something horribly clever to say, and, if I am being honest, I had no desire to find out what it was. I am certain it would have only served to upset me more.”

“Oh, Dorian,” Harry murmured, appearing almost sorrowful. “You do not know. Now, I must tell you-do not be frightened-but Sybil Vane was found dead last night.”

Every part of the lad’s body went cold, and he cried out, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He suddenly felt very weak, and Harry helped him to sit. Staring hard at the letter in his hand, he finally croaked out, “Dead? Sybil? My god, Harry, what happened?”

“It is not entirely clear,” he answered, standing near the boy and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “There is an inquest being conducted at present, but she was found with a strange substance, either prussic acid or white lead. It is believed she ingested it by mistake.”

Dorian’s whole body shook with horror at the realization that he had killed her. Perhaps he had not handed her the poison and told her to drink, but he may as well have. “I killed her,” he croaked out, his head falling into his hands. “Oh, Harry, I killed her. I was so cruel to her last night. I told her I never wanted to see her again, and now I never will. I destroyed her so completely that there was nothing left in her.”

Harry squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Come now, my friend. You mustn’t think like that. It is certainly a tragic event, but she made her decision on her own.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “It is almost beautiful, in a way. This girl felt so much that, in its entirety, it flooded her senses until it was the only thing she knew, and so, she let it consume her. Do not grieve for her, dear Dorian. She died as Juliet, lamenting a love that was lost to her. Truly, for a young woman such as herself, it is an honorable way to leave this world. Now, come away from here. I despair at seeing you so full of misery, and I insist you join me for dinner.”

Dorian’s stomach twisted at the thought of dining anywhere, listening to Harry make his witty remarks while Sybil lay naked, pale, and alone in a coroner’s office across town. “I do not feel up to it,” he said shakily. “Thank you for the offer, my friend, but I would much rather be alone.”

“Why?” Harry wondered, not unkindly. “So you can lament in your solitude? Why let yourself be consumed with your sorrow when you can pass the evening in pleasant company? You will forget all about your grief, and, in time, perhaps you will even forget about her.”

Dorian considered this for a moment. More than anything, he longed to forget what had transpired between himself and the young actress, and rid himself of the heavy guilt that threatened to choke him. Even so, he insisted that Harry leave without him, and he was left alone in his room, with nothing but the distant birdsong for company. He stared at the letter in his hand for a long time, clenched so tightly in his fist that his knuckles began to turn white. Furiously, he tore it to shreds, letting the pieces flutter into the wastebasket like birds settling into their nests for the night. One caught a draft and fluttered daintily against the screen, behind which his portrait was hidden away.

Shuddering at the memory of the portrait’s bewildering change, he made sure Victor was busy in the kitchen before toting the heavy thing upstairs. It was slow, awkward work, but he did not dare ask for help, lest anyone notice the cruel twist of his mouth that had not existed a mere twenty four hours ago.

Finally, he set the thing down at the top of the stairs as he fumbled to open the door to the old storeroom. The entire second floor existed mostly for storage, and it was visited, at most, once a month for the barest amount of cleaning, which made it the perfect hiding place. Pushing the door open, he dragged the portrait inside, caring very little about scuffing the frame as he shoved it into the corner, surrounded by some dusty, old tapestries. Heaving the closest one over the portrait, he took a step back and regarded the now hidden piece with weary satisfaction. Seeing the storeroom’s key sitting on a nearby desk, he took care to lock the door behind him as he headed back downstairs. No one would ever see the accursed thing again, not if he could help it.

Dinner time came and went, but Dorian merely picked at his food. Victor cleared a mostly full plate, and the lad retired to his room for the night. Taking a seat on his bed, he stared blankly at the wall as he turned Harry’s words over in his head. He tried to tell himself that Sybil’s death, although tragic, had a macabre sort of beauty, a fitting conclusion to the end of a life swept up in a whirlwind of romance and passion. She died as she had lived, in a way that commanded attention, her heart full of devotion.

Dorian tried to tell him this was true, but he could not help but believe it was not. When he thought of her, all he could think of was the fact that she had died alone, with no thoughts in her mind except those of misery and rejection. She had given every piece of her soul to him, and how had he repaid her for it? He had turned her away the moment she became something he did not want, and, as much as it sickened him to admit it, he had been disgusted with her. She had shattered the perfect fantasy he had created the moment her hollow words echoed throughout the theatre, and it had angered him. How dare she be anything less than perfect? She had been a genius, truly a goddess among the common folk, and she had thrown it all away for no reason, for absolutely no reason at all.

Shaking his head, he shoved the heels of his palms against his eyes, attempting to clear his thoughts. It did not matter that he had regarded her as a divine being, because, above all else, she had been a woman, barely more than a girl, no more, and no less. She was fated to be flawed the moment she emerged into the world. She had been human, and he had punished her for it. He groaned in horror, remembering how she had clung to him with wide, haunted eyes as tears spilled down her cheeks. He had destroyed her. The simple fact remained: if he had not been so cruel to Sybil Vane, she would still be here now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so our boy begins to fall. How shall he pull himself from the abyss of his guilt? Find out in upcoming chapters!


	3. The Man In The Mirror

The next eighteen months passed Dorian by like a fog. He floated through the halls of his estate like a ghost, saying very little and feeling even less. The change in demeanor was noticed almost immediately, and letters poured in from countless individuals inquiring over his health, all of which he ignored. Even Lady Agatha was among the many who begged for his return, citing that she simply could not be expected to play Chopin without him this coming weekend.

The thought of touching a piano made the lad feel exhausted beyond measure, and he threw out the letter without a second thought. He did not have the energy to endure much these days, and his patience had worn so thin that he could scarcely hold a conversation. Of everyone left in London, Harry was the only one he could stand to be around for more than an hour. He never made the lad talk more than he wanted to, and he could just sit back and lose himself to the soothing drone of his voice, for as lethargic as he had grown during the day, he found himself unbearably restless at night. The world became too quiet, almost deafeningly so, and he would beg Harry to take him somewhere, anywhere that was full of noise, the louder and more chaotic the better. He did not care where Harry took him, as long as it could fill the dull, steady roar in his head.

Harry, to his credit, did a wonderful job in distracting the lad from his misery. All it took was a drink in his hand and a whisper in his ear to lose himself entirely to the cacophony, and he did, every night. Often times the sun was already rising steadily above the horizon when Dorian stumbled his way into a cab, clinging to his friend’s arm so that he did not fall over.

“Get some rest, my friend,” Harry would tell him, wrapping an arm around his waist so that he would not fall over in his seat. “I will come by tonight to check on you.”

“I will be asleep,” Dorian would mumble, his head falling against his friend’s shoulder as the world spun wildly around him.

“That is fine,” Harry assured him, smiling pleasantly. “I will wait for you, as long as I must.”

It went on like this most nights. Dorian would awaken just before dusk, dress himself, and wait for Harry to spirit him away to some hidden corner of London where he could forget that he was a person. He did not accompany him every time, but it did not really matter. He could get by well enough on his own, so long as he had a drink in his hand and Harry’s soothing voice echoing in his mind.

A deep, distant part of himself knew that he was running from his problems, but he could not find it within himself to care. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those wide, tear-filled eyes, silently pleading not to leave her there on that dirty dressing room floor. The young man felt trapped in his own personal hell, and if burying himself in every vice he encountered could burn away those eyes, making his life just a bit more bearable, then it was worth it.

The cycle of consumption and debauchery continued for some time, until one day, Dorian found himself in one of the seedier den’s of London’s lower East side. He had let his mind drift away, watching the throng on revelers swirl and howl, when a man approached. He hummed quietly to himself, eyeing the lad hungrily. “Well, now. What’s a nice boy like you doing in a rough place like this?” he wondered.

“Admiring the view,” the lad murmured, taking another swig of his drink.

“As am I.” The man looked him up and down, as if he were the finest piece of meat in the butcher shop. “What a lovely thing you are. You need someone to look after you.”

“I do not need looking after,” Dorian protested, slamming his drink down on the table next to him. “I need a distraction.”

“Ah, a distraction.” The man stepped forward and placed his hands on the lad’s hips. “I believe I am qualified for such a position, among many others.”

Dorian leaned his head back against the wall as the world swirled around him. Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift away as the stranger pressed a hungry kiss to his neck. “Tell me, boy,” he breathed. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” Dorian slurred. “Wait, no. Twenty-two.”

“Well, which is it?” the man wondered, glancing up at the lad in amusement. “Best pick one or the other. It makes the story much more believable.”

“I am twenty-two,” Dorian said again. “It scarcely matters, anyway. Age is only a means to measure our body’s eventual decay.”

“Well, then,” the man said, pressing another kiss to the lad’s throat. “Best enjoy ourselves now, while we still can.”

Dorian sighed, wishing the man would hurry up with his fun so he could go back to watching the crowd. He found such revelries to be one the of the few things left in the world that fascinated him. Everyone was playing their own game, seducing and gambling, pushing the limits of their own bodies just to see if they could. It was not something he particularly wanted to partake in, but it was like a game of croquet. He himself did not care to participate, but it was fairly pleasant to watch. He liked seeing the complicated maneuvers people enacted to get where they wanted to be.

Just then, the man cupped Dorian’s cheek and sighed. “Your skin is so soft,” he murmured. “Like satin, or maybe silk. How lovely.”

Dorian hummed, noncommittal. Compliments of these sorts meant nothing to him these days. However, something about it nagged at his mind. It felt wrong somehow, like a note that was too sharp for comfort. “Wait. What did you say?”

The man glanced up at him, eyes heavy. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “And so soft, too. You are almost like a boy. Are you certain you are of twenty-two years, or have you been spinning tales?”

Dorian furrowed his brow. “I…what?” He felt strange, as if he were awakening from a dream. “Wait, what month is it?”

“How strange you are,” the man mumbled, his breath tickling the lad’s throat. “It is early March. Why do you ask?”

March? That could not be right. “Excuse me,” Dorian said suddenly as he pushed the man away. “I need the lavatory.” He stumbled off, pushing his way through the crowd until, finally, he found a restroom on the other side of the room. Locking the door behind him, he studied his reflection in the grimy, filth-streaked mirror. He had been avoiding his reflection for months now, afraid of what he would see. He knew he was sleeping too much and eating too little, and the thought of locking eyes with the wraith-thin, pallid ghost of himself filled him with disgust. Now, however, as he regarded the young man in the mirror, he could scarcely believe how well off he looked. His cheeks were as rosy as ever, and even the heavy fatigue that clung to his eyelids made him appear only mildly sleepy.

He ran a tentative finger along his jaw, brow furrowed in confusion. The stranger had been right. Oddly enough, his skin was as soft and smooth as marble. How could that be? He was certain he had not shaved in months, considering the very act of dressing himself exhausted him beyond measure. However, he looked as if he had only shaved that morning. 

Dorian ran his fingers through his hair, and, in doing so, he realized that, although slightly unkempt, it remained in its usual spot against his temples. He tried to remember the last time he had been to his barber, and realized it had been at least ten months since he had last scheduled an appointment. Those golden curls should be brushing his shoulders by now. Shakily, he tore open his shirt to see that even the hairs on his chest, which had just barely began to grow in, remained as feather-light as ever, stubbornly refusing to grow.

Dorian took a step back as he regarded his reflection with growing horror. It was entirely too mad to be true, but it appeared no part of him had aged in at least a year. Panic surged through him, and, without thinking, he punched the mirror until it shattered. Glass clinked to the floor, leaving his reflection broken and distorted. He cradled his hand to his chest, knuckles bloody and raw, as he silently urged himself to calm down. No, it was impossible. One could not simply stop aging. He was certainly misremembering. It was not unusual, as he found that he had grown increasingly forgetful in the past year. Frantically, he tried to remember the last time he had so much as shaved. If memory served, it was the morning he had first met Harry. Basil had insisted that the lad keep on top of his grooming, for if even a single hair were out of place, it would throw off the entire portrait.

Dorian’s eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about the portrait. Stumbling out of the restroom, he made a beeline for the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Oh, there you are,” he heard a voice call out. Someone grabbed his arm, and he yanked it away without turning around. He needed to get home, immediately. He went outside to hail a cab, wringing his hands anxiously as he made his way back up to Northern London. By the time he strode toward the front door, a great pit of dread had formed in his stomach. He dropped his keys twice before finally unlocking the door, creeping as silently as he could down the hall to the stairs. The last thing he wanted was to wake Victor. He had not spoken more than a handful of words to him in the past year and a half, and he certainly could not explain himself now, sloppily dressed and sneaking up into the attic like a ghost.

Finally, he made his way upstairs and unlocked the door to the storeroom. He stepped into the pitch blackness and closed the door behind him as he reached blindly for the lamp he knew sat on a nearby desk, dusty and worn from disuse. Finally, the flame flickered to life, casting a dim yellow glow against the walls as he slowly made his way toward the heavy tapestry that hid the portrait from view. Grabbing a handful of the fabric, he took a deep breath and pulled it free.

The curtain fell to the floor in a heap as Dorian cried out in horror. Grotesque could not begin to describe what the portrait had become. There was the beard he could not grow, matted and tangled. The hair hung in greasy tendrils down to his shoulders, sticking up here and there as if he had been electrocuted. The face was gaunt, like that of a skeleton, with cheeks hollow and devoid of their usual rosy flush. As for the eyes…he forced himself to look away. Heavy, purple bruises encircled each one, and within their depth floated a pair of pale, lifeless irises. Gone were their glittering, sky-blue hue, and in their place were the dull, dead eyes of a corpse.

He felt his stomach twist, and he threw the tapestry back over the portrait, hiding the hideous thing from view before darting out the door. He had just enough time to lock the door behind him before falling to his knees and expelling the contents of his stomach. “Victor!” he cried out, coughing hard as he began to retch again.

He heard the servant stumbling about before finally bounding up the stairs. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, his shock illuminated by the lamp he clutched in his hand. “Are you alright, Monsieur?”

Dorian groaned as he struggled to stand. “It appears I have fallen ill,” he murmured. “Please, Victor, help me stand.”

Victor rushed to the lad’s side, helping him shakily to his feet. “Yes, Monsieur. You must go to bed at once.” Together, they made their way slowly down the stairs and into his bedroom. The lad kept his eyes trained to the floor, and he sighed in relief as Victor finally lowered him onto the bed. As he began to pull off his jacket, Victor reached out to feel the young man’s forehead, looking unsettled. “Monsieur, you are sweating profusely,” he informed him. “You need medicine.”

“No medicine,” Dorian asserted. He bowed his head, trying to focus on making the world stop spinning as he said, “Only water, as cold as you make it.”

Victor went off, and Dorian ripped off the rest of his clothes until he wore nothing except his trousers. He sat there for a moment, merely staring at the floor as he swallowed back the bile that threatened to choke him. The horrifying truth of it all filled his senses until he felt as if he were drowning in it. It took everything in him to remain calm until, finally, Victor returned. “Your water, monsieur.”

Dorian grabbed the glass without a word, downing the whole thing in seconds. Taking a deep breath, he handed the glass back to the servant, feeling a bit steadier. “Thank you, Victor. You can go now.”

Victor nodded, picking up the young man’s sweat-drenched clothes that he had thrown haphazardly across the floor. As he placed them into the hamper, he said, “Oui, monsieur. Get some rest.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, Dorian fell back against his mattress and drew his knees to his chest. His throat burned, as if he wanted to cry, but no tears would come. He stared blankly at the wall as the horrid truth washed over him; he had not aged in roughly eighteen months. It was utterly mad, too mad to be true, and yet, the evidence stared him in the face every time he looked in the mirror. Something about that day in Basil’s studio had changed him. Nothing happened to him anymore, and everything he did affected the appearance of the portrait, as if it were a living, breathing person, and he was a collection of pigments on a canvas. He felt off balance, as if the world had shifted from its axis and was now spinning out of control. Every terrible thing he had ever said and done now lay bare within the portrait, naked and exposed. He shuddered at the memory of those cold, dead eyes gazing up at him, and he wrapped his arms around himself. It was a testament to every sin, every single horrid thing about himself that had pushed Sybil Vane to her demise.

As if a great dam had burst inside of him, he buried his face in his pillow and sobbed, a great heaving force that shook him to his core. He was scared, more scared than he had ever been. Why hadn’t he been kinder, more thoughtful? Now, a girl was dead, and he was damned.

He wiped at his eyes, hiccupping softly as he willed himself to calm down. Maybe this is not such a terrible thing, he told himself. After all, had he not wished to remain young and vibrant forever, all those months ago in Basil’s studio? The portrait was an unfortunate thing, but much better it become wretched and haggard than Dorian himself. He had an eternity ahead of him, an eternity that could be spent in youthful cheer and adventure.

Dorian tried to convince himself that this was fine, that he could live like this, but even so, he felt terribly claustrophobic, as if he were trapped in an ill-fitting suit, choking and gasping for air. Suddenly, he felt trapped, as if the walls were closing in around him, and he scrambled out of bed to find a shirt. He had scarcely clasped the last button before he was down the hall and out the front door, not even pausing to grab a coat as the frigid midnight wind hit him like a slap in the face. He thought he heard Victor calling behind him, but he did not stop. The last thing he wanted in this moment was to explain himself to anyone, and at any rate, what could he say? That he was trapped in an immortal body, cursed to be the same as he had been eighteen months ago? He would carted off to the nearest mad house by morning. So, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked, eventually coming across a small park. The trees were bare, save for a handful of dead leaves that clung desperately to the branches. The sky was cloudy and dark, without even a single star to cut through the void. It matched his mood perfectly. Taking a seat by the empty, frozen fountain, he leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the cold wash over him. He was shivering, but at least he felt real.

As the wind shuffled the branches, a few loose leaves swirled in the air before settling at the feet of the stone angel that sat atop the fountain. Dorian studied her for a moment, taking in her pensive expression as she held a vase to her chest, angled just so that the water would spill out, if only the pipes had not been frozen since November.

_That is what I am, _he thought bitterly. He was a statue, trapped to watch the world change and grow around him, whereas he would only ever be the same, as if frozen in a single moment in time. The lad put his head in his hands, feeling utterly lost. On one hand, aging was a process that frightened him greatly. He loathed the idea of his body breaking and decaying around him, helpless to stop it. He had been blessed with miracle, something humanity had dreamed of since the dawn of their creation. It would selfish, really, to not take advantage of such a gift.

The wind picked up, tousling the lad’s hair and making him shiver harder. He could not help but feel like a ghost within his own body, neither living nor dead, and cursed to remain as he was during one of the unhappiest moments of his life.

“Dorian?” asked a softly inquisitive voice, making the lad jump. He looked up, and there was Basil Hallward staring down at him in surprise, suitcase in hand. “I thought that was you. What are you doing out here in the cold? It is the middle of the night, and you are not even wearing a coat.”

Dorian stared up at him. It had been months since he had last seen his friend. It had been nothing personal, only that he had not wanted him to see him as he was now. He knew Basil was a gentle and morally upstanding individual, and the thought of him discovering what he had been up to filled him with shame. “Oh, Basil,” he said finally, searching his mind for some sort of explanation. “Yes, well, my estate was feeling rather stuffy, so I fancied a walk. What brings you to this side of town?”

Basil stared at Dorian in concern. “My friend, you are shivering.” He removed his coat and wrapped it around the lad’s shoulders. “Come,” he said, holding a hand out to him. “Allow me to walk you home.”

Dorian hesitated for a moment, pulling the coat tighter around himself. “I don’t actually want to be home right now,” he admitted in a small voice, and he mentally kicked himself for sounding so weak.

“Dorian, you are not dressed for such weather,” Basil said, pulling the lad to his feet. “You need to be by a fire before you fall ill.” He let go of his hand, and stared in surprise at the blood on his fingers. “You are bleeding. What happened?”

“I wanted to be alone, Basil,” he told him, avoiding the man’s gaze. “Life in the Gray estate has become unbearable.”

“There are plenty of ways to escape the tedium of home without succumbing to frostbite,” Basil remarked. “Please, allow me to walk you home. I will need to bandage up your hand as well, lest it gets infected.”

Dorian sighed, but walked with him. It was uncomfortably silent for several minutes as they made their way back to the estate, and the lad figured he should say something. However, it had been well passed a year since he had seen his friend, and he was at a loss for words. “You never answered my question,” he said finally. “What brings you to a frozen park in the middle of the night?”

“My train just arrived from Germany,” Basil explained. “I was at an exhibition for the past several months. Do you not remember? I wrote to you about it some time ago.”

“Ah, yes,” Dorian murmured. In truth, he had not read his mail since the day he learned about Sybil’s death. “How did that go?”

“Fine,” Basil answered, glancing worriedly at the lad and his bloody hand. “Dorian, are you sure you are all right?”

The lad said nothing. Finally, they reached the front door, and he headed inside without turning around. In truth, all he wanted was to be alone, but the thought of laying in his dark, empty bedroom with nothing but his thoughts for company frightened him beyond measure. At least, with Basil present, he may be blissfully distracted from the storm swirling in his head. He thought of the portrait hidden away upstairs, and he shivered. Basil, ever soft spoken and reserved, had gone out of his way to walk the lad home and even offered to clean his wound. If he turned him away now, the picture was sure to grow even more distorted.

“Monsieur, there you are,” Victor said, looking relieved as he came down the hallway. “It is too cold, much too cold for travel. You will grow even sicker. You must stay inside.”

“You are sick?” Basil asked, glancing fearfully at the lad. “Come, we should sit down. Victor, would you prepare him some tea? Chamomile would be perfect. And please grab some bandages, a dish of water, and some rags as well.”

“I hate chamomile,” the lad whined, sinking into the sofa. There was a fire steadily burning in the hearth, and he kicked off his shoes, sighing in relief as the feeling in his feet steadily returned.

“Then why do you keep it in the cupboards?” Basil wondered, taking a seat beside him.

“I don’t keep it for myself,” he retorted. “I keep it for guests. A good host always has options.” He had not entertained in well past a year, but Basil did not need to know that.

“Be that as it may, you are going to drink all of it,” the older man said firmly. “You need to warm yourself back up, and chamomile has numerous health benefits. Trust me, you will be feeling much more like yourself by morning.”

Dorian could not help but snort at this, much to Basil’s surprise. Gone was the light-hearted young man he knew, and in his place was a bitter creature, eyes heavy as if he had not gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks.

“Myself,” the lad murmured, seeming unaware of Victor’s presence as he set down a tray of tea on the coffee table. Beside the teapot lay a half-full dish of water, an old rag, and a handful of bandages. “I do not know who that is, Basil. I have not known myself for a long time now, and I suspect I never will again.”

Basil shared a glance with the servant, who stared at the artist entreatingly, as if to say, “I do not know what is wrong with him, but please do something.” He nodded to the man, who bowed and took his leave as Dorian stared off into the distance, looking haunted.

“Dorian,” Basil said gently so as not to startle the lad. “Your tea will be cold soon. You should drink.”

Dorian glanced at the older man, as if he had forgotten he was there. Slowly, he reached for his cup, wincing at the taste as he took a sip.

“That’s a good lad,” he said, smiling encouragingly. He submerged the rag in the dish and rung it out before gently wiping it against the lad’s knuckles. “Is that glass?” he asked, his face a mask of concern. Without a pair of tweezers readily available, he had to pull it out himself. “Dorian, what happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dorian muttered, wincing at the pain.

Basil frowned but continued on, carefully cleaning the wound until it was ready to be bandaged. “You need to be more careful,” he said quietly. “What if I had not been here? Clearly, you did not even tell Victor you were injured. You need to take better of yourself.”

“Why?” the lad snapped, glancing sharply at the man. “Tell me, why should I coddle myself? What about me is worth taking better care of? I deserve this pain. I deserve every piece of glass you pulled out of my skin. I deserve that and more.”

Basil stared at the young man in shock. He had never heard him speak so negatively about himself. Setting down the unused bandages, he tentatively said, “My friend, please talk to me. It is clear you are suffering. Perhaps I can help lessen this weight on your shoulders.”

Dorian shook his head hard. “No, I can not even entertain the possibility,” he said firmly. “It is my own hell to bare alone. It is what I deserve.”

Basil’s eyes widened. “Are you in some sort of trouble?” he wondered fearfully.

Dorian closed his eyes. He was suddenly so very tired. “It does not matter,” he said. “You have cleaned my wound and forced me to drink my least favorite tea. Surely, you must be exhausted. I can manage myself if you wish to return home.”

Basil stared at the lad, his expression unreadable. “No,” he said suddenly. “I do not wish to leave. I wish to stay here.” He reached for his uninjured hand and, holding it close, said, “Dorian Gray, you are my dearest friend. I will not allow you to push me away when you are obviously in so much pain. Let me be a shoulder to lean on. Tell me your plight so I may aid your recovery. I refuse to let you waste away in this house, all alone and full of suffering. You deserve so much more than that.”

Dorian stared at Basil for a long time. He had spent the last eighteen months trying to forget about him, certain that he would be disgusted with the person he had become. Yet here he was, the only person to aid him, to see how thoroughly miserable he was and to offer him his help. His thoughts turned to Harry, who, in contrast, would encourage him to shove his pain down into the deepest recesses of his mind, certain that talking about it would only serve to be a tremendous waste of time. In lieu of self-care, he would drag him out every night to whatever dark corner of London he was intrigued by at present, encouraging him to consume everything in his path until he could no longer think, because, as he explained it, if he did not think, then he would not feel. But he needed to think. He had so much to think about now. Finally, he spoke. “Basil, what does goodness mean to you?”

Basil furrowed his brow in confusion. “I am not sure I understand what you mean, my friend.”

“Goodness, Basil,” he repeated. Something changed in his eyes then, making him look desperate. “What makes a good person good and a bad person bad?”

Basil was quiet for a long time, pondering this question. Dorian found the silence maddening, and was just about to open his mouth to speak when the older man finally answered. “You know, Dorian, there is really no such thing as good people or bad people. There are merely people, and sometimes those people do good things, and sometimes they do bad things. Goodness is not a state of being. It is an eternity of conscious acts, of looking at a situation, thinking to yourself, ‘This is wrong’, and doing everything in your power to change it. Being a good person is a lifetime commitment, not some trait that is inherited from birth.”

Dorian stared at his friend, almost as if seeing him for the first time. He had never realized he had such thoughts in his head, and for a moment, he let himself feel hopeful. “What about the people who do bad things?” he wondered.

Basil tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “Well, that is where things tend to get a bit foggier,” he admitted. “Of course, there are people who do bad things because they believe it is the right thing to do. Everyone has their own interpretations of the meanings of good and bad. However, I believe there is strength in looking upon past deeds with shame. It is important to let that shame consume you until it burns away, leaving behind an iron resolve to do better. Shame is a reminder of how not to be.”

Dorian sat back in his seat, pondering this. Yes, he was filled to the brim with shame. He hated the person he had become, this unfeeling statue that consumed and consumed, uncaring of the people he hurt in the process. He had utterly destroyed Sybil Vane, and he had done nothing to try to make up for it. He merely spent his nights doing everything he could to numb his mind, to burn away the memory of the tears that had dripped onto his trousers. He took a shaky breath, blinking back his own tears that threatened to, once again, spill down his cheeks, as if chasing after the ghost of Sybil’s tears. He did not feel stronger for his shame. He felt weaker, as if he were drowning in it.

“Dorian,” Basil said softly, pulling the lad out of the storm that was raging in his mind. The young man glanced up, and saw that he was staring at him with concern. “Please tell me what is troubling you. You used to be so joyous, but something changed in you that day, at the theatre. You seem…off, somehow, as if your body is here, but your mind is far away. And with all these questions of right and wrong…” He shook his head. “Something has happened, hasn’t it? Something very bad.”

“It is nothing,” the lad murmured, rather unconvincingly, as he avoided Basil’s gaze. He reached for his tea, wincing at the taste, but continuing to drink nonetheless. Anything to avoid explaining himself.

Basil frowned. “Dorian, please,” he insisted. “You are my friend. If you are in some sort of trouble, I would much rather you tell me. Perhaps there is something I can do to help.”

Dorian set the teacup back down, biting his lip. He let himself imagine telling Basil the horrid truth, that he was damned, that he spent most of his nights in a drunken stupor, that his portrait, Basil’s perfect masterpiece that he had worked so hard on, now wore a demonic face. “You would only think me mad if I told you,” Dorian said suddenly, his gaze fluttering nervously out the window to the darkness beyond.

Basil gave a reassuring smile. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Your mind is so seldom troubled, at least to the best of my knowledge. Perhaps talking about it will ease your worry.”

Dorian wrung his fingers, uncertain. More than anything, he wanted so desperately to trust someone, and he knew Basil better that than perhaps anyone in the world. “Not here,” he decided. “Come, follow me.” He stood and led him into his bedroom, taking care to lock the door behind him. “You can have a seat at my desk.”

Looking flustered, Basil sat. Hands in his lap, he said nothing, only waited patiently.

Dorian took a seat at the edge of his bed, staring nervously at his bandaged hand. Taking a deep breath, he began. “Do you remember the day I met Harry? How I had despaired at the idea of growing older, and how I wished to remain young forever?”

“Quite well,” Basil answered. “You were quite distressed.” Curiously, something flashed in his eyes then, something almost like anger. “I must admit, I hated seeing you so upset. I gave Harry an earful for it once we were alone.”

“Yes, well. Regarding that…” Dorian was unsure how to continue. Finally, he decided to be blunt. “I do not believe I have aged since that day.”

Basil stared at Dorian with an unreadable expression. Blinking slow, he said, “I am afraid I do not understand your meaning.”

Dorian sighed and stood. He went to stare out the window, fingers twitching nervously at his sides before explaining. “Since that day, I have not changed. My hair has not grown long, nor has my stubble grown in. I wished to remain young forever, and I fear that wish has come to fruition.”

Basil was silent for a long while, his eyes trained cautiously on the younger man. Slowly, he looked away, tapping his fingers against his knee with a thoughtful expression.

“For God’s sake, Basil, say something!” Dorian cried, whirling to face the man. “I can not bare this silence!”

Basil regarded the younger man steadily. “What do you wish me to say?” he wondered. “That you are stark, raving mad? I do not believe you are. Could it be, perhaps, you are simply misremembering certain things?”

“Misremembering!” Dorian cried. “My dear Basil, I used to shave every morning. I would make a visit to the barber at the first of every month. Now, look at me. It has been eighteen months since that fateful day in your studio, and here I am, as unchanged as if it were only this morning.”

Basil studied Dorian deeply, as if trying to remember every detail of his face. “You look as you always do,” he conceded.

“Therein lies the problem,” Dorian said, throwing himself back onto his bed. He buried his face in his hands and muttered, “It is as though I am trapped, cursed to live as I was that day. I am miserable, and fearful of the future, only my future has been stolen from me. I am cursed to only ever live in the present.”

Basil rose to sit beside the distraught young man. After a moment’s hesitation, he placed a gentle hand on his trembling shoulder and said, “You have as much of a future as anyone, Dorian. You must believe that.”

“Perhaps I could,” the young man murmured unhappily, “if it were not for the painting.”

Basil tilted his head in a quizzical manner. “Painting?” he repeated. “What painting?”

“Why, your painting, of course!” Dorian cried. Staring at the older man with wide, frightened eyes, he said, “What does not happen to me happens to the painting.”

Basil shook his head in confusion. “I do not understand. You mean to tell me the portrait has changed? How can that be?”

“I am sure I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dorian admitted. “I only know that it has. To look upon it…” He shuddered in revulsion. “It is as if I can see every black scar against my soul. It is a horrid thing.”

“Dorian,” Basil said firmly, turning the young man to face him. “I insist you show me the portrait.”

Dorian recoiled in horror. “Basil, I can not!” he objected. “Yours is one of the few opinions I hold in high esteem. I could not bare to expose my broken, wretched soul to you.”

“I know your soul, my dear boy,” Basil gently assured him. “And it is neither broken nor wretched. Please, show me the object of your suffering so I may help you rid yourself of it.”

Dorian protested once more, but began to see there was little point in arguing. After all, Basil was the artist. Did he not have the right to look upon his work, twisted as it had become? Finally, he conceded, and he led Basil to the locked room on the top floor. As he turned the key, he glanced back at his friend. “Do not let such wretchedness darken your opinion of me,” he begged.

Basil gave an encouraging smile and placed his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “It would take more than a picture for me to turn away from you, my friend,” he assured.

Dorian took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. It was dark in the store room, with very little light coming through the window. As Basil took a few steps forward, Dorian fumbled about for the lantern. With a click, the room was illuminated in a soft yellow glow.

“Is that it there?” Basil asked, pointing toward the heavy tapestry that hid the horrid thing.

“It is indeed,” Dorian replied with a grim look. “I am compelled to hide it away. The thought of that horrid face laying naked and exposed…” He shuddered, unable to continue.

Basil made his way to the shrouded canvas and gripped the tapestry. He glanced at Dorian, awaiting his permission to remove the cloth.

Dorian bit his lip and turned away, his face a mask of pain. Basil hesitated, wondering if perhaps they should go back downstairs, when, finally, he saw him nod. Gripping the tapestry tight, he uncovered the canvas and gasped in horror. “God in heaven!” he cried out.

Dorian had in no way exaggerated how grotesque the portrait had become. The creature within was unlike anything Basil had ever seen. Where there was once a beautiful young man, there now stood a wretched, twisted thing, something that scarcely appeared human. The hair had lost its shimmering golden hue, and now appeared stark white, sticking up at every angle as if it had not been brushed in years. Most disturbing of all, however, were the eyes. Gone was the boyish warmth, and in their place was a cold, dead malice, practically appearing to float among a sea of darkness. This was not the Dorian Gray he knew. This was a monster.

After several moments of heavy silence, Basil finally croaked out, “Surely, this is some sort of cruel trick. Someone must be pulling our legs.”

“I assure you, Basil, this is no trick,” Dorian said glumly. “I first noticed a change about a month after it was finished. After…” He swallowed nervously. “After everything that happened between myself and Sybil Vane. It was just a small thing, a cruel curl of the mouth, but since then, it has grown more and more wretched. I did not look at it again for a long time; you must understand, Basil, after everything that happened that night in July, I simply wanted to forget. I wanted to forget Sybil, the portrait, everything. I did not look upon it again until several hours ago.”

“My god, Dorian,” Basil murmured, studying the wretched piece intently. He wanted to look away, but every time he averted his gaze, he noticed some new horror. “How could this be? Even if such sorcery were possible, this is not the person I know you to be.”

“Perhaps,” Dorian suggested in a grim tone, “that is because you do not know me as well as you think.” After a shaky breath, he continued. “I find myself often drawn to matters of a most…unseemly nature, with little regard of consequence.” Basil’s eyes widened, but he hurried on. “I have to, Basil. It is the only thing that can silence the shame that has been building in me ever since Sybil drowned her sorrows in poison. It only takes a handful of drinks to make it all melt away. It is only then that I can breathe.”

Finally, Basil was able to tear his eyes from the painting to look the younger man in the eye. “Unseemly in what way?” he asked. “What sort of business have you been up to?”

Dorian’s face was a mask of shame. “Unseemly,” he repeated without meeting Basil’s gaze. “That is all you need to know.”

The two men stood in silence for some time, as Basil’s thoughts swirled with horror and doubt. He could scarcely believe his lovely portrait, his masterpiece, had turned into something so horrid. “Is this my doing?” he wondered aloud. “Have I somehow corrupted your image?”

Dorian looked at the older man, startled. “You? Of course not! You had no hand in this wretchedness.”

“How can you be so sure?” Basil asked, his expression fearful. “My intentions were innocent, it’s true, but not entirely free from greed.” He flushed and looked away, shame written plainly on his face. “It shames me greatly to admit this, but you deserve my honesty. You see, you were truly so beautiful, I felt I simply had to capture your likeness on the canvas. However, as time wore on, and as your portrait began to come together, I began to feel a selfish desire. I knew I could not exhibit the piece, for I had put too much of myself into it. It felt too raw, too personal. So I thought, perhaps, I may keep it for myself.” Basil put his head in his hands. “A cruel and selfish desire indeed. Who am I to keep such beauty to myself? This is why, dear Dorian, I gifted it to you and you alone. No one but yourself should be in possession of such loveliness.”

Dorian regarded Basil with surprise. Basil considered his greatest sin to be that he admired him too much. It was an endearing sort of innocence. Taking a step forward, he placed his hand on the older man’s shoulder and said, “If your greatest sin is that you find me lovely, you are scarcely the source of the wretchedness my portrait has become.”

“Who, then?” Basil asked without meeting the lad’s eyes. “If not the creator nor the subject, who is behind such sorcery?”

“Who is to say?” Dorian lamented as he began to pace. “God, the Devil, it could have been anyone. All I know is it has something to do with the day you finished the portrait, the same day I met-“ He broke off, a look of haunted realization crossing his face. “Harry.”

“Dorian?” Basil asked, unsettled by the look on the lad’s face. “What is it?”

“Harry,” the lad repeated, whirling to face his friend. “Yes, it makes sense, doesn’t it? He wanted the portrait, and he was the one who told me I was nothing without my youth. It was his voice echoing in my head when I threw my hateful words at Sybil Vane. He is the one who joins me nearly every night in my endeavors. I thought it was to make sure I was getting out of the house, and ensuring I returned home safely. But don’t you see? He is the one constant in all of this. This sorcery is neither your doing or mine. I believe Harry has woven this spell.”

“Harry!” Basil cried in disbelief. “With his obsession of rationality? Surely not!”

“All the evidence points to him,” Dorian said. “Even when he is not with me, it is his voice that whispers to me in the dark, urging me out the door and into the deepest, darkest parts of London. Yes, I know it sounds mad, but something tells me he has something to do with this.”

Basil shook his head. “No, I refuse to believe it. Harry is a corruptive influence, it is true, but to believe him capable of such wicked sorcery? He is merely a flawed human being, nothing more, and nothing less.”

“He has a hand in this, Basil!” Dorian insisted. “What other explanation could there be? From the moment I met him, my life has been riddled with misfortune.”

“But to think he would actively plot against your wellbeing…” Basil shook his head once more, unsure of what to think. “I do not know, Dorian. There must be some way we can know for sure why all this has happened.”

The lad was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. Finally, he said, “Some time ago, on one of my nights out, I met a man by the name of Alan Campbell. Perhaps, if there is anyone in all of London to know anything about such sorcery, it would be him.”

“Alan Campbell?” Basil repeated with a confused expression. “I know that name. Is he not the chemist who resides on the upper West side? How could he possibly help us with such a problem?”

“Alan knows things,” Dorian assured him. “He is a brilliant man, with some admittedly strange thoughts about the world. I believe Alan is just eccentric enough to be helpful.”

Basil looked lost in thought for several moments. “Okay,” he said suddenly. “So, we must go see Alan, then.”

“We?” Dorian furrowed his brow. “Basil, this matter does not concern you. It is my soul at risk. I must do this alone.”

“Dorian, that is nonsense,” Basil objected. “You are my friend. I can not let you do this alone, especially if there may be danger ahead.”

“That is exactly why I must do this alone!” Dorian cried, taking a step away from the older man. “I will not allow you to put yourself in danger because of me.”

“That is not your choice to make,” Basil retorted, standing firm. “Go see Alan Campbell on your own, if you wish, but that will not stop me from being here for you.” After a moment’s pause, he said softly, “I can’t let you go through this alone. The weight of it all will surely kill you.”

Dorian’s heart swelled with something large and unknown. Slowly, he reached out and took his friend’s hand. “What if the same happens to you?” he whispered, his eyes fearful and wide “What if the same sorcery that has stolen my future and blackened my soul falls upon you as well? The thought of your soul becoming as twisted and wretched as mine…” Dorian swallowed hard. “I can not be responsible for ruining another life, Basil. Certainly not yours.”

Basil stared at the lad with so much admiration, it made him flush. “My dear Dorian,” he murmured. “It embarrasses me a bit to admit it, but truly, I would do anything for you. I would walk through the fires of Hell if you asked it of me.”

The declaration startled and endeared the young man in equal measure, and, without thinking, he embraced him. “Thank you,” he croaked out, the weight of his gratitude choking him.

Basil stood stiff in his arms for a moment before slowly relaxing into the younger man’s embrace. Gently, he placed his hands on the lad’s hips and whispered, “Should you desire it, I will always be here.”

The two men stood like that for a while, two terrified souls finding solace in one another’s company. Dorian tried to focus only on the comforting, familiar warmth of his friend, but he could not help but feel the heavy weight of the wretched portraits gaze, watching his every move, quick to paint out his sin at the slightest provocation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we begin to deviate from the original canon. Things are only gonna get spicier from here. Let me know what you think!


	4. A Common Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian and Basil, unsure of what to do, turn to local chemist Alan Campbell for help.

The two men parted ways not long after that, both in agreement that they would speak to Alan the following evening. Both parties slept fitfully, but none more so than Dorian. He lay awake most of the night, eyes trained on his window as if searching for monsters in the dark. Every rustle made him jump, and the tap of a branch against his window made his eyes widen with fear. He hoped beyond hope that Alan would be able to help them.

As the rosy fingers of dawn began to stretch across the sky, Dorian gave up on sleep entirely. He sat up in bed and stretched his sore limbs, and by the time Victor came to wake him, he was already dressed and anxious to begin the day. Once he had finished breakfast, his first breakfast in months, he realized with surprise, he wandered his home listlessly, in search of something to fill his time until five o’clock, when he and Basil were scheduled to see Alan. However, by noon, Dorian found he was so restless he could not stay home any longer. Hailing a cab, he traveled across London to see Basil. It was his servant Parker who answered the door, informing him that Mr. Hallward had left for the market roughly an hour ago. “In search of art supplies, I believe,” he explained. “I tell him often that I am more than willing to make the trip for him, but he insists he do it himself. He tells me he likes only particular kinds of paint, and he wants to ensure he receives the right sort.”

“I see,” Dorian murmured. “In which case, would it be a terrible inconvenience if I waited for him here?”

“Not at all, sir,” Parker assured. “You are welcome to wait for him in the parlor. In the meantime, I will put on some tea. He should not be too much longer.”

Dorian thanked Parker and made his way to the large parlor, where he had posed for Basil all those months ago. He sat down, feeling infinitely older than he had been that day, but, without looking in a mirror, he knew he had not aged even an hour since then. He accepted the tea from Parker, and sipped idly as his gaze wandered throughout the room, where it finally fell on the piano. Despite himself, he missed playing the piano, breathing life into the songs that danced in his head. It had been far too long since he had played, and he remembered there had been a tune that had been growing in his mind, lilting and sweet, aching to be released into the world. However, he stayed where he was. He did not feel ready to return to his music, not yet. Instead, he stood and took his tea out into the garden. It was a rare sunny day, and although the air was brisk, he relished the warmth of the sun on his face. It had been so long since he had felt warm. Looking around, he noticed the trees, frigid and bare, were just barely begin to bud, and he felt a deep ache in his heart. He longed to be as the trees, blossoming with the coming spring. He sat his teacup on the table and paused, studying his hands. They were unmarred, without even a single callus to prove that he had ever done anything, that he had ever lived. He felt like a statue, a pretty piece of decoration, destined to only ever exist as he was in this moment. It was maddeningly suffocating.

“Dorian?” he heard a voice call behind him. He turned, and there was Basil, two large bags in his hands. “Parker told me you were here. Are you well?”

“Quite well, yes,” Dorian said, rather unconvincingly. “Would you like help with those?”

Basil smiled. “It is kind of you to offer,” he said, and the lad realized it was the first courtesy he had offered anyone in months. Handing one of the bags to the young man, Basil said, “They need only go out in the garden. I was planning on bringing out the easel this afternoon.”

“I see,” the young man said as he set the bag beside his chair. “Forgive me, my friend. It would seem I am intruding.”

“Not at all,” Basil insisted. “In fact, I am happy you are here. As you are well aware, I tend to lose track of time when I paint. Thankfully, you can let me know when it is time to leave.”

“I would be happy to do so,” Dorian said, returning to his seat. “You need not even speak.” He paused for a moment. “Well, you may have to speak a little. Time passes so slowly in silence, and it makes me so restless, especially as of late.”

“I understand, but your words surprise me a bit,” Basil said, picking up his easel and setting it under his arm. “I find the reverse to be true. Nearly every conversation I have ever had seems to be a personal contest of how many words can be spoken in the smallest amount of time.”

“That is only because those people have nothing of value to say,” Dorian said, watching as Basil set up his easel several feet in front of him, with a perfect view of the variety of flowers and trees. “Let me tell you a secret, Basil. When people are saying too much in too little time, their only aim is to impress. When people say very little in the span of hours, it is because they have something important to say. Although it tends to make me uncomfortable, I think I would rather sit in silence with good company than listening to ramblings of a stranger.” Titling his head quizzically, he finished, “It is not unlike you with your paintings, I suppose.”

“Oh?” Basil looked surprised as he set up his canvas. “How do you figure that?”

“Well,” Dorian said thoughtfully as he handed the bags of paints to Basil’s outstretched hand. “Think of it this way. Oftentimes, artists will boast about how little time it took them to complete a particular project. And yes, at first glance, the piece looks marvelous. However, if you look closer, it is riddled with mistakes. Too little shading, an ambiguous light source. Whatever the case may be, it is hardly the piece they boast it to be. However, the careful artists, the ones who take their time, who think before they add a new detail, therein lies the true masterpiece.”

Basil looked thoughtful as he raised his brush. After a moment, he said, “What a wise boy you are.”

“Is it wisdom?” the lad wondered, his brow furrowed. “I merely speak from experience.”

“My boy, all wisdom comes from experience.” With that, Basil placed the tip of his brush against the canvas, and he was lost in a swirl blues and greens. It was silent for a long while as Dorian watched him paint, and after some time he got up to stand beside him, watching how his brush moved across the canvas. He almost made it look easy as he turned several large strokes of varying shades of blue into the brilliant March sky. With a few quick upward strokes, there were the trees that whispered and sighed in the wind. Dorian cast a glance at the artist and noticed something he had missed before, when he had posed for him that summer day in June. Basil’s brow was furrowed, lost in concentration as he worked, and he bit his lip every now and then as he paused, trying to figure out which little detail to add next. At that moment, Dorian realized Basil put every part of himself into his paintings, and only now did he understand what he had meant when he spoke of his portrait. In a sense, he devoured all the beauty he encountered, working for hours, weeks, even months to perfectly recreate every lovely thing he saw so he could hold on to it, so he could show the world just how beautiful it was to be alive. As Basil’s brush danced across the canvas, Dorian finally understood that Basil saw that in him, that beauty that he had devoured so completely that it overflowed onto his canvas. Every last detail, right down to the curl of his fingers against his leg, had to be perfect, because anything less would be like losing a part of himself.

Dorian felt himself flush at the realization. He had deeply misjudged Basil. He had thought he admired him simply because he was attractive, but it was so much deeper than that. Basil painted him with the same feverish passion he painted the trees and the sky, because he saw in Dorian the beauty of being alive, the beauty of being a person. It was a deeply misplaced sentiment, but one he found endearing nonetheless.

As the sun began to lower, Dorian reached out to tap Basil’s shoulder. “It is time, my friend. We should be heading to Alan’s soon.”

Basil’s eyes widened as he lowered his brush. “What, already?” he wondered, looking up at the sky. “Goodness, that went by rather quickly.”

“Do you think so?” the lad asked with a smile. “I do believe it dragged a bit.”

“Yes well, you knew what you were getting yourself into,” Basil said, packing up his supplies. “Allow me to tidy up a bit, and we can be on our way.”

“Why not have Parker do it?”

“I like my things to be put in a certain way.”

Roughly forty five minutes later, the pair were across town, the sun barely clinging to the horizon as they appeared on Alan Campbell’s doorstep. Dorian rang the doorbell and took a step back, his palms sweaty. He was suddenly very nervous that Alan would write them off as a couple of madmen, unwilling to help them in any way. At any rate, he did not know him well, and he had not exactly made a wonderful impression upon him they day they had crossed paths. He was under no inclination to help the two men, even if he did miraculously believe their story.

After several moments, he rang the doorbell again, but the pair were only met with heavy silence. “Do you suppose he is not home?” Basil wondered with a worried expression.

“I sent word that we would be coming,” Dorian said, his eyes trained on the door as if willing it to open. He reached out to ring the doorbell once more when, finally, it swung open, revealing a rather disheveled looking young man. “Yes, I heard you the first time,” Alan said, his expression more than a little grumpy. “Dorian Gray. And you’ve brought with you Basil Hallward? Well, the two of you may as well come in. I’ve just put a kettle on.”

Alan led them to the sitting room, where it was surprisingly tidy, although evidence of his profession lay scattered here and there. The bookcases were filled to the brim with books on every sort of subject, and the odd piece of paper lay on a variety of surfaces, as if Alan had quickly scribbled his thoughts before becoming distracted. As the kettle began to whistle, he said, “Please have a seat. I will return in a few moments.”

The two men sat on the loveseat as Alan scurried out of the room. Basil noticed the younger man anxiously tapping his foot, and he placed a reassuring hand on his knee. “Be easy, my friend. Alan will have the answers we seek.”

“What if he does not?” the lad wondered, his eyes full of worry. “What if he believes I am mad, and he turns us out on the street?”

Basil considered this for a moment. “Well,” he said finally. “We would simply have to figure something else out.”

Dorian sighed and threw his hands into his lap. His hands brushed Basil’s fingers where they rested on his leg, and he heard him inhale sharply. He turned to look at the older man, and saw that he studiously avoiding his gaze, his face flushed a startlingly endearing shade of pink.

Dorian felt something inside him soften at the sight of Basil so bashful. Not for the first time, he could not help but notice how different he was from Harry. To the best of his recollection, Harry never showed more than curious amusement or careless indifference at the world around them. Basil, however, felt so much, and was embarrassed by it. The lad thought he could know Basil for years and still be surprised by him.

Alan finally reentered the room, this time with a tea tray in his hands. Like a flash of lightning, Basil’s hand was off Dorian’s knee and back in his lap, and the younger man found himself missing the comforting, steadying warmth.

Alan waited until after he had served the tea before stating, “I received your message. I understand it is urgent?”

Dorian took a sip of his tea and placed it back on its saucer. “Before I begin,” he said. “I need to know that what I am about to tell you will not leave this room. No other soul is to know about this.”

Alan glanced at Basil, then back at Dorian. Finally, he said, “I have heard the rumors, Dorian. I saw you that night, many months ago. Am I correct in assuming you require assistance in…unseemly ventures?”

“Unseemly is perhaps not the best word to use,” Basil said. “Our ventures are unconventional, I grant you, but not by fault of anyone present here today.”

Dorian could see by Alan’s expression that he trusted Basil infinitely more than he trusted him, and for that he could not begrudge him. He stayed silent, hoping Basil had convinced him to at least listen to what they had to say.

After several heavy moments of silence, Alan sighed. “Alright, then,” he conceded. “And what exactly is this mysterious endeavor you require assistance with?”

With Basil’s help, Dorian relayed once again his incredible theory. Alan listened to the whole tale in silence, his expression betraying very little emotion. When the two men finished their story, Alan stood and went to look out the window, the last rays of sunlight framing his body like a halo.

The pair stayed silent as they waited for Alan’s mind to wrap around what they had told him. After several moments, he finally whispered, “I can not believe it. It is all true.”

Dorian furrowed his brow. “What was that?” he asked. “Do you mean to say that you believe us?”

Looking excited in a way that was rather uncharacteristic of his smooth, careful nature, Alan turned and strode towards a door off the parlor. “Follow me,” he instructed, in lieu of an answer.

The two men hastily followed Alan as they entered what appeared to be his study. It, like the rest of the house, was surprisingly well kept, with tidy piles of papers sitting atop the desk. Along the walls were floor to ceiling bookcases filled to the brim with more subjects than Dorian could count. Alan knelt beside the shelf closest to his desk and began to thumb through the collection.

“It seemed too mad to be plausible,” he murmured to himself as he pulled out a dusty gray journal filled thick with loose pages. He took a seat at his desk and began to flip through the volume as he said, “Tell me, Dorian. When did you first notice this change?”

“I…in June,” he answered, startled by Alan’s tenacity. Despite himself, he wondered if he treated every case he faced with the same sort of ferocious curiosity. “Not this past summer, but the summer before that.”

“Yes, nearly two years ago” Alan muttered. “After you made the acquaintance of Lord Henry Wotton.”

It was not a question, but Dorian felt compelled to answer. “Yes. It was the same day I met Harry.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Is it as I thought, Alan? Does he have a hand in this?”

“Almost certainly,” he answered, startling both men. “The chances of his sudden appearance being entirely coincidental to the misfortune you have spoken of can be no more than three percent.”

“What are you saying, Alan?” Basil asked, his expression incredulous. “You actually believe us?”

Alan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Many years ago,” he began, “I stumbled across a similar situation to yours.” He pulled a loose page from the book and handed it to Dorian. The page contained some carefully written notes, as well as the picture of a beautiful young woman standing beside a rather large rose bush.

“The young lady you see in the photograph was Lady Alice Delmont,” Alan explained. “I crossed paths with her and her mother in my botany days. She had quite an extensive garden, and I inquired about some samples I may obtain from her.” He sighed. “That rose bush was her pride and joy. Every year she would win awards for it.” Alan began to chew at his thumbnail. “But one day, she just dropped dead. No one understood why, but the autopsy revealed she had…aged considerably at the time of death.”

“’Aged considerately’?” Dorian echoed. “What does that mean?”

Alan gazed steadily at the two men. “The only witness to Miss Delmont’s death was her mother, who was believed to be in a delicate frame of mind. I went to see her shortly after Alice’s death. She was often kind to me, so I thought I would offer my condolences with a potted rose.” He sighed and turned in his chair to gaze out the window. “You would think I offered her a live rattlesnake. She howled in horror and hurled the rose into the garbage. After many inquiries, Mrs. Delmont told me it was that ‘godforsaken rose bush’ that had killed her daughter. Of course, I myself thought she was mad with grief, but then she confided in me just how her daughter died.”

The two men listened attentively as Alan continued. “Mrs. Delmont informed me she was awakened that morning by the cries of her daughter, who she found kneeling beside the rose bush. ‘This accursed rose bush!’ she cried. ‘This blight on my soul! I can look at it no longer!’ Mrs. Delmont claimed the young woman wrapped her hands around the base of the rose bush, unfeeling of the thorns that were piercing her skin, and she wrenched it out of the ground. According to Mrs. Delmont, she was dead before she even hit the ground, and where she was once a lovely young woman, no more than twenty, she was a now a withered creature of perhaps sixty. And the rosebush…” He cleared his throat. “By Mrs. Delmont’s account, the rose bush withered away into nothing in a span of less than a minute. I myself inspected the rose bush on my way out, and sure enough, it was wasted away, with nothing but a handful of sickly twigs occupying its space.”

All three men were silent for a long while, with nothing but the occasional chatter from the outside world to fill the air. Finally, it was Basil who spoke. “You believe these two situations are related?”

“Not necessarily, but they are certainly similar,” Alan said. “I believe Dorian and young Alice Delmont came into contact with an alchemist_._”

“An alchemist?” Dorian wondered. “Aren’t those the strange scientists that try to create gold out of iron and coal?”

“Not exactly,” Alan answered. “The true definition of an alchemist has been warped over time. Their true nature is much more sinister.” Alan adjusted his spectacles. “They are similar in practice to witches, or perhaps demons.”

Dorian drew in a frightened breath, and Basil placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What you are saying is madness,” he insisted, staring at the chemist incredulously. “Demons are creatures of the Holy Bible, Alan. Witches are creatures of folklore. They do not reside in our world.”

Alan shook his head. “Unfortunately, Basil, that is not true,” he said. “Perhaps it has never been true. But I assure you, after Miss Delmont’s fate, I studied the subject extensively and found dozens of similar cases throughout Great Britain. These people, after meeting a mentor of sorts, exhibit strange behavior, and those closest to them tell tales of obsession with certain objects. Many of these individuals, in fits of rage and madness, attempted to destroy these objects, only to immediately die themselves. Sometimes the objects were destroyed with them, other times they were left in pristine condition, as if no harm had come to them at all.”

“What are you saying, Alan?” Dorian cried. “That my soul is somehow trapped in Basil’s portrait of me? How can that be?”

Alan sighed. “I am sorry to say that I do not know.”

The three men were silent for a long time. Dorian’s thoughts were in fearful chaos, but Basil’s own mind felt murky, as if he were trudging through a deep pit of mud. He could scarcely wrap his mind around the situation at hand. With each passing moment, he felt worse and worse, until he turned to the younger man and said, “I am so terribly sorry, my dear friend. This is all my fault.”

Dorian glanced at his friend. “Basil, we have been over this already-“

“But, if I had never painted that god forsaken portrait-“

“Basil,” Alan interrupted. “An alchemist is a cunning creature, and would have found anything to be the object of Dorian’s obsession. The object itself scarcely matters. It is about what it represents.”

“So then, what can be done?” Dorian asked. “Obviously, the portrait can not be destroyed, otherwise I will meet the same fate as Miss Alice Delmont.”

Alan clasped his hands, staring thoughtfully at the pair. “I know of very little that can be done,” he admitted. “However, there may be one method that will yield results.” He opened a drawer and rummaged through it for a moment before producing a strange, ornately carved dagger, made from a sort of pink substance.

“This is a Himalayan salt dagger,” he explained as he carefully placed it on the desk. “It is believed that this particular salt has numerous health benefits, among other things. It absorbs the toxins in the air, purifying and cleansing the surroundings.” Alan lowered his voice. “If our suspicions about Harry are correct, my suggestion is to handle the situation with this.”

“Good god, Alan!” Basil cried in horror. “Are you suggesting we kill a man? How could you ask that of us, especially from poor Dorian, whose soul is already in mortal peril?”

Alan leveled a steady gaze at the man. “I am asking you to observe him,” he calmly explained. “Study his habits. Perhaps you should even suggest a trip to the seaside. The salt in the air is bound to make him extremely uncomfortable. It may even prove to be fatal, although, of this, I can not be certain. A creature of such toxicity will certainly be unable to survive in such a purified environment.” He tapped his fingers against the dusty gray book before continuing. “I know of only one such case in which someone was freed from their curse by killing their mentor.”

“And you are certain that this will work?” Dorian asked, much to Basil’s horror.

“Dorian, surely you are not considering such an endeavor!” he cried. “This is a man’s life we are discussing.”

“If our suspicions are correct, than I can assure you he is no man,” Alan interjected. “Whatever humanity was left in him faded away over time. There is no set purpose in the life of an alchemist, but the more souls they have damned, the more powerful they become.”

Dorian and Basil shared a look. The older man’s stance on the matter was plain to see, but Dorian was still undecided. He feared for the safety of his soul, but was it worth potentially killing someone he had once viewed as a friend? “I’ll take the dagger,” he finally decided.

Basil stared at the lad as Alan handed it over. “Have care,” he warned. “Alchemists are deceptive creatures. Do your best not to raise any suspicions.”

Dorian nodded. “Thank you, Alan,” he professed in earnest. “I can not tell you how much your help means to me.”

At this, Alan gave a small smile. “Perhaps you are a better man than I thought, Dorian Gray,” he said suddenly, as if he had just decided this. “It is a cruel hand you have been dealt, one that no one deserves.”

Basil and Dorian took their leave, and Basil offered to walk him home. They spent the entire journey in silence, and Dorian could see he was greatly upset. He could hardly blame him, but he could not help but feel frustrated with the older man. Surely, Basil did not believe he wanted to kill Harry! He had been dearer to him than a brother. However, if he turned out to be the reason the portrait was changing, then what else was Dorian to do?

Finally, they reached Dorian’s doorstep. The sun had long since set, and only the nearby lampposts provided illumination. Turning to his friend, he asked, “Would you care to come in?”

“It is rather late,” Basil answered without meeting his gaze. “I had best be returning home.”

Dorian frowned. “Please do not be angry with me,” he quietly begged. “I have so few options left to make this right. I beg of you, tell me what you believe I should do, and I will do it.”

Basil sighed and finally met the younger man’s gaze. His eyes were heavy and tired when he said, “Dorian, it is not for me to tell you what to do. That is for you to decide for yourself. Forgive me. It was not my intention to appear cold. This has all been so much, I can scarcely wrap my mind around it all.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I think… I just need some time. To come to terms with everything, that is.”

“Yes, of course. I understand.” Dorian shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts, but he could hardly begrudge Basil for his disorientation. So much in the world had changed in such a small amount of time, and the new reality they faced was overwhelming.

After several moments of silence, Basil spoke again. “I am not angry with you my friend. It is only…” He trailed off uncertainly.

“You need not say anything,” the lad assured him. “I understand. Truly. Please, return home and get some rest. We both have had a rather long day.”

“Indeed.” After a moment’s hesitation, Basil said, “Goodnight, my friend. Be well.”

“I promise to do my best,” Dorian said with a wry grin, revealing a ghost of the easy mischief that had once come so easily to him. “You be sure to do the same.”

With these words in mind, the two parted ways, both of them knowing they would get roughly as much sleep as they had the previous night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, things are picking up. Dorian has a semi clear objective, and hell's gonna break loose pretty darn quick. Let me know what you think in the comments!


	5. A Thorough Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With little proof of Harry's true nature, the lads decide that they must investigate him.

Dorian spent the better part of a month studying Harry’s movements, which, unfortunately, yielded very little results. He did his best to maintain appearances, however, he did gently admit that he no longer wished to frequent their usual haunts in the lower east side. He needed his mind clear for the task at hand, and he knew a room awash with temptation would weaken his resolve. Instead, he accompanied him to every party, every brunch, even trips out to the countryside. Harry, for his part, proved to remain as perfectly arrogant and cynical as he ever was, but, to the lad’s growing dismay, he revealed nothing about himself that hinted at his identity as an alchemist. Of course, the lad’s investigation was now constantly hindered by well wishers who, upon learning about his return to public life, vied for his attention, inviting him to countless get-togethers.

“It can be ascertained that the boy’s reemergence into the public’s eye may, unfortunately, be entirely my doing,” Harry said one evening at Lady Agatha’s estate. She had been overjoyed to see that Dorian was out and about once more, and had insisted almost immediately that they join her for dinner. “That is, of course, not to diminish the lad’s own strength that allowed him to overcome the illness that left him homebound for so long. However, I could see how barricading oneself in their room would only serve to be detrimental to one’s already poor health, so I insisted he leave the house once a day.”

“Harry, how unlike you!” she tittered, dabbing daintily at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “You have never been one to boast.”

“It is not boasting if it is the truth,” he disagreed. “Boasting requires embellishment. I will say, while it is particularly startling to see London as a whole flock to him like a particularly ravenous group of pigeons to a loaf of bread, well, it is a delightful change of pace to see him not quite so miserable.”

“It was not entirely your doing,” Dorian grumbled, annoyed by Harry’s perceived role as caretaker. “I was just tired of being locked away in my house.” He cleared his throat and smiled at Lady Agatha. “And, of course, I missed your charming presence, Lady Agatha. My home has been so quiet without your songs to fill my head.”

Lady Agatha blushed, but waved away his comment. “Oh, do not think you can charm your way out of this one, Dorian Gray,” she chided. “I happen to know for a fact that you have not responded to a single one of my letters, and I wrote you many. Nearly two years you have been hidden away, without even a word!”

“That is not entirely his fault,” Harry chimed in. “The boy was ill for so long. Why, he could scarcely get himself out of bed.” He smiled at the lad. “But worry not. I ensured he got out of the house. Spending that much time indoors is bad for one’s health. All he really needed was some fresh air. The blood becomes so stagnant when one is still. Once you get moving around, it flows much easier, clearing out the toxins that make one so ill.”

“Oh, Harry, I always knew you had the capacity to be a saint,” Lady Agatha gushed, looking proud, as if, by extension, she was responsible for curing the lad’s depression. “It fills my heart with joy to see you in the company of someone you thoroughly enjoy. It is such a change from your usual contempt.”

It was infuriating. Everywhere they went, people would sing praises to Harry for heroically saving the young man from the darkness that had haunted his mind, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from insisting that it was in fact Harry who was responsible for his melancholy, for nights so lost in a drunken stupor he would sometimes awaken in his room with no recollection of how he got there. And then, a handful of hours later, Harry would appear at his door to being the whole cycle again. “Yes,” he would say, smiling and nodding along. “Harry has been an irreplaceable presence in my life. Truly, no friend has ever treated me better.” Inside, he was seething.

Every week, he and Basil made a trip to Alan’s estate to discuss their progress, but they rarely uncovered anything of importance. By the sixth visit, the lad was so worked up he could scarcely stay still. “This is beginning to feel utterly hopeless,” he lamented, throwing himself onto the sofa.

“Do not lose faith, my friend,” Basil said, taking a seat beside him. “He is certain to let something slip sooner or later.”

“It will be later, I fear.” He rubbed his hands against his face, then immediately stood to go to the window. “It is infuriating, Basil. He has convinced the whole of London that he is some kind of gallant savior, saving me from my misery. But he is the cause of it!”

“It is certainly suspicious behavior,” Alan said thoughtfully from his armchair, scribbling away in one of notebooks with narrowed eyes. “An alchemist will go out of its way to avoid the ire of others. It makes sense that he would frame himself in such a way.” He tapped his pencil against his bottom lip. “Then again, he could just as easily be an ill-meaning gentleman who enjoys attention too much for his own good, or anyone’s good, for that matter.”

“This is why I am so frustrated,” Dorian said with a scowl. “His behavior is certainly reprehensible, but is it supernatural in origin? Is it riddled with malicious intent, or pure boredom? Who is to say!”

Basil went to stand beside him, staring at the lad with concern. “Perhaps you are working yourself too hard, my friend,” he suggested. “I see no harm in you taking a day to yourself, if only to collect your thoughts.”

“Oh, Basil.” He sighed. “I would so love to, but I am afraid he has outings planned for every day, this week and next. Trying to get me back on a routine schedule, or so he says.” He rolled his eyes. “Tomorrow, I am to join him at a party, honoring some artist or another.”

“Ah, yes,” Basil said, his lip curling in disgust. “Matthew Boyle. What a horrid man he is. All pomp and very little circumstance. He can scarcely tell the difference between watercolor and acrylic.”

He glanced at his friend. “You know him, then?”

“Unfortunately. We artists tend to frequent the same circles. The way he speaks implies he is teaching a lesson, as if he is some grand philosopher, but rest assured, the man is a fraud. His pieces are mediocre at best. It is only his eccentric mind and halfway charming personality that intrigues people so much.”

“Wait,” Alan said suddenly. “This may prove to benefit us all. Basil, undoubtedly you have an invitation to this party, do you not?”

“I do,” Basil answered. “I was planning on turning it down. Boyle and I have never been particularly close. I think he tries so vehemently to charm me just so he can get a piece or two into some of London’s finer art galleries.”

“No, you absolutely must accept his invitation,” Alan insisted. “You and Harry have not exactly been on close terms as of late, but he has no say in whether or not you show up at this party. I believe you should go, and study him. See how he interacts with Dorian, as well as everyone else. There may be something about him that Dorian is too close to see.”

Basil shared a glance with the lad, unsure. “I suppose that makes sense,” he said. “What do you think, my friend?”

“Yes, it is a wonderful idea,” Dorian answered, looking relieved. “I so despise being alone with him. When it is just the two of us, his twisted words begin to make sense to me, and it makes me terribly confused. It will be a refreshing change to have a voice of reason nearby.”

“It may also prove beneficial if you two were to meet up afterward,” Alan added. “Perhaps at Basil’s estate, given that we have no reason to believe that Harry would follow you there. You two can compare notes, discuss anything that may happen.”

“Alright, then,” Basil decided. “I will be there tomorrow.”

When the day arrived, Dorian dressed himself in trepidation. He was unsure what to expect, and he could not help but notice how possessive Harry had become as of late. He knew he would never snub a close friend like Basil, especially at a party such as this where all eyes would be on them, but this did little to comfort the lad.

As usual, Harry was late, but once he arrived, they made their way through town toward the Boyle estate, prattling on the entire time.

“I have heard this Matthew Boyle is quite a character. Eccentric, but not in such a way that frightens off London’s elite. They coddle him, I suppose, like a cherished show pony that has begun to slip into senility. That is not to say that he is an older fellow, however. I am told he is quite young, not even thirty.”

“He is no older than Basil, then,” Dorian said without thinking, and immediately bit his lip. Harry had never so much as mentioned him in the last year and a half, and Dorian figured it would be better for all of them if they pretended they had not spoken since that dreadful night at the theatre. Although, for the life of him, he could not understand why Harry had suddenly turned so cold toward the artist, especially since he had known Basil for longer.

Harry glanced at the lad, his expression unreadable. “Yes, I suppose that would be right.” He tilted his head. “I wonder, have you heard from our dear artist lately? He is certain to attend this party tonight. He wouldn’t dare catch the ire of someone as beloved as Boyle.”

“Oh, not really,” Dorian answered quickly, perhaps too quickly. “Perhaps every now and then, you know, on the street, in shops. I never stay to chat for long. You know how long conversations tire me.”

“Indeed, I do.” He smiled. “I figured this little get together would be much more suitable for sight-seeing, instead. Perhaps, after we make our introductions, we could find a nice, dark corner to watch the revelers. I so enjoy seeing the little games they play.”

This made Dorian nervous. He knew he was at his most vulnerable when it was just the two of them, and he hoped Basil would already be there and waiting for them when they arrived.

As they pulled up to the gate, Dorian was taken aback by the grand estate, already overflowing with people. Even before they went inside, the large, opulent windows revealed dozens of people swirling and spinning on the dancefloor like feathers caught in a breeze. Foot traffic was steady, and as they walked up the steps, many revelers were pouring out the doors, heading toward the expansive gardens out back, taking advantage of the warm weather as they snuck off to hidden pathways and shadowy corners.

At one point in his life, Dorian may have found such a crowd, with their extravagant jewels and glittering fans, to be the most fascinating sight in the world. Now, however, he could not help but feel overwhelmed. The revelers’ voices overlapped until the din sounded more like a heavy rumble, like an omen to a terrible storm, and there was scarcely any room to comfortably roam. It was maddeningly claustrophobic.

“You are looking a little pale, my friend,” Harry remarked. “It is not too much for you, is it? We need not stay. There are plenty of quieter locales that would prove to just as interesting, if not more so.”

“It is fine,” the lad answered quickly. As uncomfortable as he was, he could not abandon Basil, or their plan. They were here to study Harry, and that was exactly what he planned on doing. “It is a bit disorienting, but I will adjust.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Harry smiled and grabbed two drinks from a nearby server. “While your health is, of course, first and foremost, I can not help but feel incredibly curious about our host tonight. Such strange whispers I have been hearing about him. I hope to find him an interesting fellow.”

“Interesting,” a voice said behind them, “is perhaps not the best word to use in regards to Matthew Boyle.”

The men turned, and there was Basil, looking very dapper in his evening suit, even as his expression conveyed his discomfort. “Vapid, I think, would suit him better.

“Basil,” Harry greeted, appearing pleasantly surprised, and clapped the man on the back. “How good to see you. I did not think you would be here tonight, given your distaste for extravagant events.”

“Well, Mr. Boyle invited me himself, and seeing as I had nothing better to do, I figured I may as well come.” He glanced at the lad. “Hello, Dorian. It has been awhile.”

Dorian nodded, feeling nervous. “Yes, it has. I am very sorry.”

“The boy’s health has been wavering as of late,” Harry said. “I am sure you have heard.”

“Indeed, I have. It is no matter. I am only happy to see you well again.”

Dorian could feel his face warm at the sentiment, however true it may have been, and he smiled. “Thank you, Basil.”

Basil returned the smile, eyes softening at the edges before returning his gaze to Harry. “At any rate, Boyle is hardly a man worth making an enemy of. He strikes me as the sort of fellow who would be an exhausting nemesis.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Harry said. “One’s nemesis must always be interesting. Otherwise, where is the fun in it all?”

Dorian eyed the man dubiously. “I would hardly call it fun to be so hated. I would find it to be quite miserable.”

“That is because you are not considering the theatricality of it all,” Harry said. “It is a perfect, subtle dance. Oh, they will insist that they are going out of their way to avoid you, but then, everywhere you go, there they are, either in presence or speech. It is a bit like love, I would imagine, to be so consumed by someone.”

Basil wrinkled his nose. “Love and hatred are two vastly different sentiments,” he protested.

“Not so much. Or, rather, not as much as you might think. Do they not both involve an all-encompassing passion? An ache for attention?”

“What about you, Harry?” the lad wondered. “Have you a nemesis of your own?”

Harry shrugged. “Undoubtedly, but none that I care to know. I know many consider my way of thinking to be a bit unorthodox, but that is hardly my problem. Let them take issue with me if they wish. They shall spend their lives fuming at my sinful behavior, and I, in turn, will forget who they are the moment they leave my line of sight. Believe me, my boy, if I were to have my own nemesis, it would be for a much more interesting reason than a mere disagreement in beliefs. I haven’t the time nor the patience for such close-minded individuals.”

“I seem to remember objecting to your philosophy quite vehemently when we first met,” Dorian noted. “You did everything you could to sway me to your way of thinking.”

“Ah, but you are so young,” Harry said, with a twinkle in his eye. “When one is young, one must be exposed to all the philosophies of the world. This way, they are not stumbling through life with only one eye open. They may see all that life has to offer. And if, in time, they turn their back on one such philosophy or another, at least they have the option to do so.”

“And what about me, Harry?” Basil wondered. He appeared nonchalant, but Dorian noticed the stony look in his eye. “Am I allowed to take issue with your philosophies, or have I exceeded the age limit?”

At this, Harry laughed. “My friend, you have never hidden your disdain for my life’s philosophies. Dare I say, that is what makes us such wonderful friends. You and I are yin and yang. You, with your endless morality, and me, with my insistence that life should not be spent pushing away what you want.”

“It is hubris.”

The two men glanced at the lad, seeming surprised by his bitter words. “Is it?” Harry wondered. “I can hardly imagine how that can be.”

“It is,” Dorian insisted. Perhaps he was saying too much, but the words would not stop. “Taking and taking until there is nothing left to take, and then you are left feeling empty inside.” He swallowed hard against the sudden threat of tears. “It is not unlike what happened to me.”

Basil stared fearfully at the lad, as if to tell him to stop, that he was sure to anger Harry with his bluntness. However, Harry merely tilted his head thoughtfully. “So you fancy yourself as Icarus, do you?” he wondered. “I suppose you are much like him in that respect. You believe you have lost your wings, and you are hurtling toward the sea. But, my friend, if you would just take a look at yourself, you would see that your wings are still there, unfurling and glorious.” He sighed. “You mustn’t let one bad experience sour your outlook on life, Dorian. You are entirely too young to be so cynical. Living comes with a series of wins and losses. You mustn’t let the losses affect you so harshly. They merely add to the experiences of life.”

“And just what do you know of loss?”

“Now, Dorian,” Basil said carefully. “That is certainly too personal a topic to question Harry about. We have all had our hardships.” His eyes begged for the lad’s silence.

Harry stared at the lad, expressionless. “What a strange question, indeed,” he murmured. “Am I to understand you believe me to be incapable of loss?”

Dorian bit his lip, worried he had crossed the line. He wracked his mind for something to say. “Forgive me, my friend. I was merely looking for advice on how to cope with my own troubles.”

“I am scarcely the person to go to for such an endeavor,” Harry assured. “The extent of my wisdom is as follows; feel your pain, and move on. One can not live a satisfactory life by dwelling on the past. They become a miserable individual, to none more so than those who must interact with them.”

“Harry, be tactful,” Basil snapped, looking angrier than Dorian had ever seen him in public. “The boy has spent the past year in a depressive state. The last thing he needs right now is to be told what a terrible inconvenience his misery is to others.”

“Forgive me, my friend, but between the two of us, who has been at dear Dorian’s side every day?” Harry tilted his head at the man, looking perfectly civil. However, Dorian could hear a hint of warning under his pleasant voice, could see the ice creeping into his eyes. “Do not presume to know his misery better than I do. I am well acquainted with it. Of course, Dorian knows that I would never speak ill of his presence in my life. If I may be so bold, he is the most interesting person I know.” Harry looked at the lad, appearing contrite. “I certainly hope you did not take offense to what I said, my dear boy. I was speaking generally, and you, of course, are of the highest exceptions.”

Dorian clutched his glass hard. Smiling, he said, “Of course not, my friend. I should think it would be very hard for you to offend me.” Internally, he was seething. He wished he could leave, but the night had scarcely begun, and if Harry thought he was falling back into his depression, he was certain to follow him home. He was at his safest when they were surrounded by people. “However, I tire of all this talk. I would like to mingle a bit.”

“Oh, certainly,” Harry said, peering around the noisy room. “The question is, who in this entire building is worthy of your time?”

“Have you met Boyle yet?” Basil asked. “I recall him inquiring after you when I first arrived.”

“Oh, yes.” Harry’s eyes lit up. “I had quite forgotten about him. I am told he is quite the character.”

“That is putting it mildly,” Basil said with a wince of distaste.

“Well, it is only polite,” Dorian said slowly. “After all, he did invite us here tonight. We can not go the whole night without saying hello.”

“Yes, it would appear that, once again, we are at the mercy of the whims of polite society,” Harry said jokingly. “Let us track the man down. No doubt he is desperate to meet you, my boy.”

They found Matthew Boyle by the grand staircase, telling a story that somehow necessitated wild gestures with his hands. At the sight of the trio, however, he excused himself and made his way over. “Ah, Basil!” he cheered, clapping the artist hard on his back. “I was so hoping you would be present tonight. I know how you like to hide yourself away. I find it utterly endearing that you would sacrifice your solitude for me.”

Basil gave a strained smiled. “Yes, well, we artists must show a kinship,” he said. “Otherwise, how else will we appear legitimate?”

Matthew laughed at this. “Yes, the elitists love to paint us all with the same brush, so to speak.” He smirked, pleased by his joke. “That is why parties such as these are so important. They prove I am not a shut in.”

“I would be careful talking like that,” Harry said, raising a brow. “How can you be certain that we are not the ‘elitists’ you are so fearful of?”

“I should think not, if you are in the company of Basil Hallward.” Matthew guffawed, not noticing Basil’s look of annoyance. “I jest! He is a fine man with fine friends.” Finally, he turned his gaze to Dorian. “But none more so than you, my dear sir. Dorian Gray, I presume?”

Dorian smiled good-naturedly. “At your service, Mr. Boyle. I thank you for the invitation. It was a splendid excuse to reacquaint myself with this thing called living.”

“I am pleased it worked,” Matthew answered. “I have to say, I am absolutely shocked. You, sir, have been shrouded in mystery for the better part of two years. It humbles me to think that my little get together was the incentive you needed to return to the spotlight.”

Dorian fought to keep himself from grimacing. He did not particularly care for the man and his arrogant, boisterous attitude. “Yes, well, with such charming individuals in attendance, how could I say no?”

Someone nearby called out to Basil, and he winced. “Oh, dear,” he murmured. “That sounded like Rebecca Flynn. I thought she was in the country.”

“And miss a night like this? Never!” Matthew laughed, pushing Basil toward a beaming woman. “She has talked my ear off of you. I insist you say hello, lest she turn her gaze back to me.”

Basil glanced back at Dorian, looking worried. “I do not know,” he said weakly. “It would be unkind of me to leave my friends.”

“Oh, we will be just fine without you for a few minutes,” Harry said, waving him away. “Go, acquaint yourself with your admirer. She looks like she will be a decided change of pace.”

“It is alright, Basil,” Dorian assured him. “We will be here when you get back.”

Basil looked unsure, but was soon swallowed up by the crowd. Dorian swallowed hard. _I can manage without him for a few minutes_, he told himself. _It will be fine._

“What a bold statement,” Matthew said, grinning mischievously at the lad. “An entire hour had passed before Lady Flynn loosened her grip on me enough to make my escape.”

“It will do him well to talk to someone that is not myself or young Dorian here,” Harry said. “He shall gain perspective.”

Matthew tilted his head at the man. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not believe you have given your name.”

“That is because I did not give it,” Harry answered. “I tend to be a bit more careful about who knows my name, nowadays. Otherwise, I imagine the paper would hold my obituary rather suddenly.”

Matthew laughed. “Well, now you simply must tell me who you are! I have certainly never met anyone as bold as you.”

“That tends to be the general consensus,” Harry said, extending his hand. “Lord Henry Wotton. And now, I am afraid you will find you do know me.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “Certainly, I know of you. You are Lady Agatha’s nephew, are you not? What a charming lady she is, and so musically inclined.”

“Yes, she is often the bridge between acquaintances,” Harry said. “It is she that young Dorian and I have in common, after all. He plays with her from time to time.”

“Yes, this is how I know of you,” Matthew said, shooting a smile at the lad. “I watched you play one night. My, you were absolutely exquisite.”

“Oh,” Dorian murmured, blushing with surprise at the sudden praise. “Well, thank you, Mr. Boyle. I am afraid I am a touch out of practice.”

“Matthew, please,” he insisted. “There shall be no misters and misses tonight. In this building, we are all good friends.”

“An interesting philosophy indeed,” Harry mused. “Do you often make a habit of befriending everyone you meet?”

“Oh absolutely,” Matthew answered with a smile. “I simply must know everyone who crosses my path. I aspire to befriend everyone in London, from the most regal nobleman to the lowliest hermit. You learn so much about the world by knowing as many people as possible.”

Harry raised a brow, appearing curious. “It appears that you and I share overlapping philosophies,” he said. “Although, I myself could not care less whether I am well liked by everyone in London. In fact, one could argue that I am quite infamous. “ He shot a smile at Dorian. “All one needs to keep warm is the humbling friendship of Mr. Gray here. I do not think I could bare to live if he ever discovered how much better he is than me.”

The two men laughed good-naturedly, but Dorian felt cold. It felt mad, too mad to be true, but his words almost sounded like a threat. Smiling tightly, he said, “Ah, yes. Well, you need not worry about that, Harry. I am not so remarkable.”

“’Not so remarkable’!” Matthew cried, looking stunned. “My dear friend, did I hear you correctly? You, with your golden halo of curls and eyes like summer? That is not even to mention those brilliant fingers of yours, plucking out such beautiful melodies on the ivory keys. You simply must give yourself some more credit. Why, if you consider yourself mediocre, then I must be among the most horrid of goblins!”

“My boy,” Harry said, turning towards the lad. “You have so many redeeming qualities, that perhaps your only fault is your modesty, and I loathe modesty. It feels like a form of deceit. You are exquisite. You must accept it.”

Dorian blushed, uncomfortable under Harry’s and Matthew’s heavy gaze. He remembered a time when he would have thrived under such attention, but now, all he wanted was to hide, away from Harry, and away from the prying eyes of London’s elite. “That is kind of you to say,” he said finally.

“Honesty is not a kindness,” Harry said. “It is a necessity.”

Matthew continued to babble on about nothing in particular, and Harry nodded along, looking much more intrigued than he normally did at such parties. Dorian, however, was silently fuming. Harry spoke of honesty as if it were a code he followed faithfully every moment of his life. However, he knew for a fact that he was keeping things from him, many things. Even if he were not the supernatural being Alan claimed him to be, he certainly had been less than forthright these past two years.

“Oh, dear,” Matthew said suddenly, looking playfully hurt. “It appears I have bored poor Dorian to death with my tales.”

Dorian blinked and realize he had been staring off into the distance, very obviously not paying attention to Matthew. “Please forgive me,” he said, face burning with embarrassment. “I find my mind wanders a great deal as of late.”

“Perhaps you need some air,” Harry suggested. “It has grown rather stuffy in here. Matthew, seeing as this is your estate, could you point us to any secret locations, away from the noise?”

“But of course,” he answered, looking mischievous. “I know the perfect place. Please follow me.”

Matthew led the way, and Harry placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, pulling him through the crowd before Dorian could protest. He swallowed back the rise of nervousness that threatened to choke him. How would Basil find them now? They went up a flight of stairs, down several hallways, until, finally, they came to a stop at a heavy mahogany door. “This is my private study,” Matthew told them. “Do feel free to make yourselves at home. There is even a balcony.”

“How very hospitable of you,” Harry said, taking a look around. “My god, look at all these books. Are you a bibliophile?”

“I tried to be,” Matthew answered, taking a seat behind his desk. “I must admit, I haven’t the patience for reading. I loathe sitting still for too long.”

“A tragic thing,” Harry murmured, browsing the titles as if he were in a bookshop. “I myself am a known bibliophile, but of very specific tastes. Dorian will tell you all about it.” Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, “You do still have my book, do you not? The one with the yellow cover?”

“Oh, yes,” Dorian said. He had all but forgotten about the book Harry had loaned to him, nearly two years ago. It was a startling read, detailing the adventures of a man untethered by the idea of morality. He did as he pleased, when it pleased him. Dorian thought the protagonist and Harry had a lot in common. In fact, it had almost appeared to be his biography. “It has been quite some time since I have looked over it, I admit, but I certainly found it interesting.”

Harry smiled, looking pleased. “I knew you would love it,” he said. “It is holier to me than the bible.”

“This must be some book,” Matthew said, looking intrigued. “It pains me, knowing I will never read it. Perhaps you could just explain to me what happens.”

“That defeats the whole purpose of books,” Harry said. “But, if you are really so intrigued, I will tell you this. It is a story of a man, living a life free from society’s grip. He does whatever his heart desires, and it desires so much. He dips his foot in everything he comes across, and I do mean everything.”

“Everything, you say?” Matthew wondered. “It sounds highly controversial, but such is life. One can not even cross the street these days without appearing controversial.” He shot a look at Dorian. “What say you, Dorian? Are you a fan of controversy?”

It felt like a double entendre, and suddenly, Dorian did not know what to say. “Well,” he stammered. “Context is always important.”

“Oh, indeed,” he murmured, staring heavily at the lad. “Context is very important.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “If you two will excuse me,” he said. “I think I will stand out on the balcony for a bit.” Before anyone could answer, he strode toward the double doors and went outside, where the wind felt blissfully cool against his heated face. He remembered the glass in his hand, and he set it down by his feet, leaning against the railing as he stared out at the twinkling stars above, breathing much easier than he had all night. It was plain to see Matthew wanted something from him, and he was utterly unwilling to provide it. Even so, he did not appreciate Harry standing by as he was, watching Matthew flirt so outrageously as if watching a particularly riveting game of tennis. He felt like this whole night was a grand experiment, and he was the test subject. However, he could not understand what it was Harry was trying to decipher.

Suddenly, he heard the doors open behind him, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. “You made your escape fairly quickly,” Harry said in amusement, following the lad’s gaze out to the stars. “My, what a lovely night it is.”

“I find Mr. Boyle to be incredibly bold,” Dorian admitted, keeping his voice low.

“I seem to remember you being just as bold not so long ago,” Harry said. “You can hardly fault the man for being excited. You are practically a celebrity.”

“I do not see why,” Dorian snapped. “What, a person stays indoors for a few months, and suddenly he is the most interesting person in London? I am only trying to navigate through this mess that my life has become.”

“It was certainly longer than a few months,” Harry reminded him. “Imagine, if you will, a spectacular creature, perhaps fae, that appears from seemingly nowhere, blessing the world with his music and magic, only to disappear for two years. Now, tell me, when such a creature returns, would you not be filled with excitement and expectation?”

“I am not fae,” Dorian grumbled. “I am not anything. I am simply myself. Everyone romanticizes me entirely too much. They like how I look. They like how they perceive me to be. If they knew who I was, they would quickly lose interest, or perhaps run away screaming.”

Harry eyed the lad thoughtfully. “Then show him,” he said suddenly.

Dorian glanced at the man, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Go back in there, and show him. You say he does not know who you are, and yet he desires you anyway. Yes, desires you. I did not miss those heavy looks he was casting toward you. If you believe he was mistaken, go in there and tell him as such.”

Dorian flushed and looked away. “Harry, that is nonsense. I will not encourage his behavior.”

“Why not?” Harry was openly staring at him now, his eyes wide and curious. “Why not explore the boy? People are rarely as one-dimensional as they appear.”

“Harry, I am not speaking to him about such a topic!”

“Why not?” Harry asked again, and the lad froze. “Ask yourself why you feel so disgusted by the idea of speaking to Matthew about his desires. It involves you, does it not? So then, why are you so content to let this die on its own, rather than expedite it by telling him how wretched you find him?”

“I never said I found him wretched,” Dorian protested weakly. Despite himself, he could see the logic of what he was saying. Would it not be kinder to let the man down gently? He was, after all, trying to be a much more thoughtful individual.

“Get to know him a bit,” Harry insisted. “You may find him as intriguing as I do. And if you still find him distasteful, well, no harm done. Add it to the list of experiences you have under your belt.”

Yes, Harry made a wonderful point. It would be cowardly of him to sit by and say nothing. Without another word, he turned around and went back inside, where Matthew was flipping idly through one of his books. “Ah, welcome back my friend,” he said with a smile. “I trust the night air was kind to you?”

“Exceedingly so,” the lad answered. Glancing at the book in his hands, he said, “I thought you did not read.”

“Well, I had to find some way to keep busy,” Matthew confessed. “It was so terribly dull in here without your charming presence.”

“Was it?” Dorian tilted his head curiously. “Tell me, what is it about my presence that you find so captivating that you must keep yourself busy with books while I am away?”

Matthew tapped a finger against his lip, looking thoughtful. “It will be quite a long list,” he admitted.

“We have time.” Dorian took a seat on one of the armchairs, watching him.

Matthew smirked as he leaned back in his seat. “Well, where shall I begin? Perhaps with your charming personality. You are so young, and yet, something in your eyes speaks of a wisdom that is well beyond your years.”

“I am not so much younger than you,” Dorian reminded him. “It is only little more than five years that separates us.”

“And yet you appear so much wiser than me,” Matthew joked. “You must be an old soul. How many lives have you lived?”

Dorian swallowed hard. There was nothing old about his soul. “Too many,” he murmured. “And yet…not enough. I long for a life that is not this one.”

“Truly?” Matthew stood, going to where the lad was sitting. Sitting against the arm of his chair, he asked, “Has life been so unkind to you?”

“I am a victim, certainly, but not of life,” Dorian answered, staring off thoughtfully. “More of circumstance. Fate has dealt me a cruel hand as of late, but I refuse to wallow in self-pity. I have done enough of that in the past two years to last a life time.”

“Fate has her claws in us all,” the man mused, looking amused. “I believe she had a hand in you being here tonight. We were fated to meet, you and I.”

Dorian raised a brow. “Were we?”

“We were.” He stared at him admiringly. “Just think about it. You were gone from the world for nearly two years, and this party, on this night, is where you have decided to make your debut? Yes, Dorian, I believe our paths were meant to intertwine.”

Dorian eyed the man dubiously. “For better or worse, I wonder?”

“Oh, for better, certainly,” Matthew assured. Slowly he reached out and tucked a stray curl behind his ear, and Dorian felt his skin crawl at the gesture. “What a duo we shall be. You, with your extraordinary good looks and talented fingers, and myself, as one of the finest artists in London. It’s exciting, is it not? I imagine we will be nothing short of celebrities.”

Dorian curled his lip in disgust. “And what makes you think I desire such an existence?”

“You said you desire a new life.” Matthew let his fingers run down the lad’s cheek until, finally, they stopped against the nape of his neck. “I can give you one. I can give you everything you want.”

Dorian stared at the man for several moments. “It is strange,” he said finally. “You have concocted a perfect illusion of me in your head. Truly, if you had any idea of who I am, you would never make such an offer.”

“Oh, I have an idea of who you are, Dorian Gray,” Matthew disagreed. “I could spot it from a mile away.” Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed him.

Dorian cringed and pulled away. What was he doing here with this vapid man, who clearly viewed the lad as nothing more than a pretty pet to be paraded around? “Do not touch me again,” he stated. “I will not be treated like a toy.”

“Come now, Dorian,” Matthew murmured, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “I know you have a thing for artists.”

“What?” Something about what he said stirred his memory.

“Oh, do not think I have not noticed the way you look at Basil Hallward. You love it when people have the capacity to worship you the way you were meant to be worshipped.”

Basil. God help him, he had forgotten all about his friend. Like a fog clearing from his mind, he remembered what they had set out to do, and he shivered in horror that Harry had led him astray so easily. Stumbling to his feet, he said, “Please excuse me. I have made a grave mistake.”

Matthew pulled back, looking startled. “What? But-“

Without another word, Dorian was out the door. As he made his way back downstairs, he mentally berated himself for being so foolish as to fall for Harry’s tricks again. He did not understand how he could have been swayed so easily. He and Basil had come here with a plan in mind, and it had all left his mind as soon as Harry turned those deceptively melancholy eyes on him. On the ground floor once more, he searched desperately for Basil, but he could not see through the crowd. He was stopped here and there by partygoers who were dying to make his acquaintance, and he silently cursed himself for allowing the two of them to have become separated so quickly. After nearly a half hour of searching, he figured he should give up and just head home. They could regroup in the morning and decide what to do from there.

“Dorian, there you are,” a voice called out behind him, sending a shiver down his spine. Turning, he saw Harry coming toward him, appearing concerned. “I have been searching everywhere for you. You left quite suddenly.”

“Yes, I did.” He did not want to admit that he had been looking for Basil, so he settled on the next best excuse. “Matthew Boyle is a perfectly horrid man. His presence had grown insufferable.”

“How unfortunate,” Harry sighed, taking a sip of the drink that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “He seemed to be such a promising young man.”

“He is disgusting, Harry,” the lad insisted, trying to look over Harry’s shoulder to peer into the crowd. Where in the world was Basil? “The way he spoke to me, as if I am nothing more than a pretty pet. It was insulting.”

“One can hardly begrudge a man’s primal desire to collect pretty things,” Harry said. “It is a trait we have had inside of us since the dawn of mankind.”

Dorian’s blood boiled. “I am not a ‘pretty thing’,” he said in a low voice. “I am a person, just like anyone else. Why must my looks diminish my value as a human being? I aspire to be more than some overrated brute’s play thing.”

“Well said, my friend.” Harry was staring at him strangely, with a heavy look in his eyes that made Dorian’s skin crawl. “People like him can be such entertaining distractions, but in the end, you are so much better than them. Better than all of them, I should say.” He stared out at the sea of people around them. “Look at them all, acting as if this is all life was meant to be. A parade of parties and wine and mind-numbingly dull conversation. Would life not be infinitely more fascinating if we were to a whisper a word or two of nonconformity into their ears? How might they respond, I wonder? Rage and disgust, no doubt, but on the inside, they would yearn. The idea that one can be something different exhilarates and terrifies the masses, and in that breathless swirl of emotion, that is when humanity truly comes alive.”

Dorian stared fearfully at the man. What he was saying made little sense, and he had the feeling that there was more to it than letting one’s inner desires run free. Feigning nonchalance, he forced out a laugh and said, “Oh, Harry. You and your funny words. You may have had one glass too many tonight.”

“Oh, I am perfectly level-headed,” Harry disagreed. However, he softened and took a sip of his wine. “Although, perhaps tonight is not the night for such heavy thoughts. This is a party, after all. We should let ourselves relax a bit.”

This did not bode well with the lad. Every time he let himself relax around Harry, something awful was bound to happen. Clearing his throat, he said, “Actually, if it is quite alright with you, I was going to leave.”

“So soon?” Harry asked, looking surprised. “It is barely midnight.”

“Yes, well, my sleep schedule is still greatly disturbed, and I find that I have grown quite exhausted,” Dorian answered carefully. “And besides, I have an early day tomorrow. I figured I could spend the rest of the night in revelry only to awaken in the morning in utter misery, or I can leave while I am ahead.”

“The pleasures of the present are worth more than the comforts of tomorrow,” Harry chided. “A mentality like that will leave you with a life full of regrets. Surely, you can stay for another hour or so. These sort of parties get infinitely more interesting past midnight. It is then that one’s inhibitions are thrown to the wind.”

Just then, Dorian felt it again, a strange sort of tugging, as if his thoughts were being pulled in another direction. Yes, it certainly made sense. Was he not wasting his life away by focusing on the future?

“At any rate, I believe we should track down Matthew Boyle,” Harry continued. “The poor fellow was utterly distraught when I returned to the study. He feels terrible for appearing so bold, and he begged me to track you down so that he could make a formal apology.”

“I-no,” he stammered. He felt oddly off-kilter, as if the room had tilted at an angle. “No, I do not wish to see Boyle.”

Harry leaned in close, eyes owl-like and curious as he said, “Just think of the pair you two would be. Such explosive personalities, coming to clash in such a way.” He smiled dreamily. “Think of how fascinating it would be, to see a fellow like Matthew Boyle at his most primal.”

“Unfortunately, I have already promised young Dorian a ride home,” a voice behind them interjected. The two men turned to see Basil appear at the lad’s shoulder, seemingly out of nowhere. “I have already hailed a cab, and he is waiting for us outside.”

“Ah, Basil,” Harry said, smiling good-naturedly. “Making a reappearance only to say you are leaving? In a land of individuals who leave parties early, you, sir, reign as king.”

“I find no shame in that fact,” Basil stated plainly, his face carefully devoid of emotion. “Come, Dorian. Our cab awaits.”

“What’s the hurry? The night is still young, and there is so much left to see.” Casting a charming smile at the lad, he asked, “How about it, my friend? Care to keep me company a little while longer? These parties can be impossibly dull without a friend by your side.”

“I…wait.” Dorian was confused. He was supposed to be leaving now, but he could not remember why. He did not want to leave. He wanted to stay with Harry. He wanted to hide in some dark corner, watching the partygoers spin past as Harry whispered the secrets of their minds to him. It was like magic, watching him recite the lives of strangers as if they were characters in a storybook.

“Dorian.” Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder, digging into his skin. It stung, and almost immediately, the strange fog that clouded his mind began to dissipate. “Remember what we discussed earlier. We have something rather important we need to go over at my estate.”

“What’s this? A secret?” Harry tilted his head curiously. “My dear Basil, you are an open book. I have never considered you to be one immersed in mystery.”

“Yes, well, it concerns my art,” he explained carefully. “I am sure you understand. Can’t give too much away or else people will lose interest.” He glanced at his friend, his stoic expression beginning to crack under the weight of his worry. “Dorian? Are you ready to go?”

“What? Oh,” the lad murmured, feeling disoriented. He took a step back, and was surprised to find how unsteady his footing was. He reached out to Basil to steady himself, and felt the older man wrap an arm protectively around his waist. “Yes,” he said. “That…seems wise. I am afraid I am beginning to feel unwell.”

Harry stared at the pair with what appeared to be concern. “Oh, dear,” he murmured. “You are looking a bit pale, my friend. Shall I help you to your cab?”

“I am sure I can manage well enough on my own,” Basil interjected before Dorian could answer. “Thank you all the same, Harry. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Harry watched the two men disappear into the crowd, his expression unreadable. When Basil dared a look back, he saw that he had disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd of revelers. Helping Dorian out the door, they hurried toward the cab that was awaiting them on the curb. “Dorian,” he urged once they were safely inside. “Are you alright? Can you speak?”

“I…yes,” Dorian said slowly, the fog slowly but surely clearing from his mind, as if shaking of the final tendrils of sleep. “Yes, I am fine. I do not know what that was.”

“I believe I do,” Basil said grimly. “I saw the way he was looking at you. He was not even blinking. It was as if he were a cat, stalking a mouse. He had some kind of hold over you.”

Dorian let out a shaky breath, horrified at how easily it had been to fall under Harry’s spell. “Thank god for you, Basil,” he said earnestly. “If you had not shown up when you did…” He shuddered at the thought.

Basil smiled gently at the lad. “Well, it scarcely matters now. I told you before I would be there for you. I never break my promises.”

The lad felt his heart swell, and, without giving it too much thought, he leaned his head against his friend’s shoulder. He felt him stiffen for a moment, then, slowly, he relax. Closing his eyes, he relished the reassuring warmth beneath his cheek.

The two men sat in comfortable silence for the remainder of the ride, the gentle jostle of the cab nearly lulling the younger man to sleep. As the miles grew between them and Harry, Dorian felt his mind become clear, and his better judgement returned to him. He remembered the events of the party, and shivered in horror at the realization that if Basil had not been present, he would still be there now, lost in Harry’s lovely, poisonous words, doing god only knows what. They needed to be more careful next time. Perhaps, once they reached Basil’s estate, they could come up with a plan for facing Harry in the future.

Finally, the cab jostled to a stop, and Dorian sat up. Turning to Basil, he saw the older man was slightly flushed, and studiously avoiding his gaze. “Yes, well. Here we are,” he murmured, looking embarrassed. “Shall we?” He stood and held open the door.

Dorian bent down and stepped out, grateful for the darkness that would hide the blush painting his cheeks. As Basil payed the cabbie, Dorian strode inside, mentally kicking himself for appearing so carelessly flirtatious. It had not been his intention, but he knew Basil to be a shy fellow who did not particularly care for such physical affection. He hoped he had not made him uncomfortable.

He entered the large parlor, looking almost unknown in the dark. There, against the wall, was the grand piano that he had so yearned to play all those months ago. He took a seat at the bench and ran his fingers along the keys, almost glittering in the moonlight. He pressed down, and shivered in delight as the lilting note echoed through the air. How he had missed stroking the keys. Slowly, he began to play, no song in particular, just a shimmering tune that had been stuck in his head ever since he had sat here two summers ago. He closed his eyes and let the music consume him, drowning out the ugliness that had been clinging to him since he had received word of Sybil Vane’s death.

When he was finished, he let the final notes ring out for a moment before finally opening his eyes, and he saw that Basil had silently entered the room. He lit several lamps, bathing the room in a dreamy golden glow. “That was lovely,” he said as he shut the glass panel to one of his lamps. “Did you write it?”

“Not necessarily,” the lad confessed, tracing one of the black keys with his index finger. “It’s just something that has been in my head for a while.”

Basil hummed but said nothing. He took a seat on the sofa near the large windows, staring out into the dark night with a thoughtful expression.

Dorian stayed where he was at the piano, preoccupied with his own thoughts. Quietly, he said, “So, it is true, then. Harry has some kind of supernatural hold over me.” He paused, looking frightened. “He is strong, Basil, stonger than we thought.”

It was a moment before Basil spoke. “Indeed. He is.” He glanced at the younger man, appearing just as fearful. “It frightened me,” he admitted. “Seeing you like that, it was as if you were enraptured. You did not want to leave.”

It was not exactly a question, but Dorian felt compelled to answer anyway. “No,” he whispered. Then, louder, “No, I did not.” His face felt hot with shame as he admitted, “God help me, I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to drink and dance and listen to every word he said. It became hard to think, to focus on anything other than him, and I suppose…” He swallowed hard. “I suppose part of me missed that. Not having to think about anything other than the beautiful words he was saying. I was so weak. Please forgive me.”

Basil glanced at the lad, startled. “Forgive you? What on earth for?”

Dorian could not bare to meet his friend’s gaze as he said, “It feels like a betrayal, to you and to Alan. Basil, you can not know how difficult it was to resist him. I wanted to agree to everything he said. I did not think of you, or Alan, or the plan we had set in place. There was nothing in my mind except Harry.” His voice broke as he said quietly, “I…I wanted to please him. And, god help me, I wanted him to be pleased with me.”

It was silent for a long while, and Dorian was certain he had disgusted his friend with his lack of will. However, Basil stood and joined the younger man on his bench. “Dorian Gray,” he began firmly, startling him. “Do not let this man fill your heart with shame. If there is to be any blame, let it fall on Harry’s head.”

The younger man stared at Basil with wide, doe-like eyes, and, once again, the older man was left breathless by his loveliness. His heart ached with tenderness for the boy, and he silently cursed Harry for taking such a beautiful, soft-hearted creature and twisting him so crudely, just to see if he would break.

“A plan must be made,” Dorian said suddenly. “I can not let myself fall for his tricks so easily, not again.”

Basil regarded the dark circles that stained the young man’s eyes like bruises. “Yes, you are right,” he agreed. “We will figure something out in the morning. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? You look like you are on death’s door.”

Dorian frowned in frustration. “This can scarcely wait, Basil,” he protested.

“My friend, you look ready to fall over,” Basil insisted, gentle yet firm. “You must get some rest. This can all wait until morning.”

Dorian bit his lip and considered this. In truth, he was so exhausted he could scarcely keep his eyes open. However, he hesitated. “I am afraid, Basil,” he admitted softly. “What if Harry decides to stop by after the party? I was scarcely able to refuse him at the party. If he catches me alone, I will be lost.”

Basil frowned. This had not occurred to him. “Harry is surely too much of a gentleman to show up unannounced in the middle of the night,” he protested weakly. “Although, I will admit, the thought had not occurred to me.”

Dorian’s eyes were heavy with fear and fatigue, and Basil feared the young man may be right. Before he had even finished formulating the thought, he said, “I insist you spend the night here.”

Dorian’s eyes lit up, and, once again, the older man felt his heart swell with tenderness. “I do not wish to inconvenience you, my friend,” the young man protested. However, his tone betrayed his desire to stay in the company and relative safety of his friend.

Basil gave a warm smile and said, “My friend, there is very little you could do to actively inconvenience me.”

Dorian smiled in relief. “You can not imagine how much I appreciate you, Basil,” he said, quiet and earnest.

Basil flushed and averted his gaze, unsure what to say. Thankfully, the lad cleared his throat and said, “Do you mind if I take the loveseat?”

“Not at all,” Basil assured him, and watched as he made his way to the sofa. He curled up, and within moments he was asleep, his hand resting beside his face.

Basil sat there for a while simply watching the steady rise and fall of the young man’s chest as he slept, looking much more vulnerable in his sleep. All traces of posturing arrogance were gone, and he looked as he was: a young, frightened man with a heavy weight on his shoulders. Despite himself, Basil’s fingers itched to trace those fine features on paper. Brushing off this rather selfish thought, he stood to drape a blanket over the young man. As he pulled it up toward his shoulders, his knuckles grazed a stray curl, and he froze.

Dorian lay undisturbed, but Basil’s heart was pounding. Shakily, he took a step back and glanced out the windows into the garden beyond. The world was dark, with only the reflective eyes of an owl as proof that anything existed out there at all.

Basil sighed and took a seat on his overstuffed armchair. He rubbed a hand across his tired face and thought perhaps he should retire for the night. However, it felt wrong to leave Dorian here by himself. He knew the young man was safe so long as he stayed away from Harry, but that did not calm the wave of protectiveness that washed over him. He reasoned that sketching was as good a way to stay awake as any, and he pulled out the small sketchbook he kept in his pocket.

He began with the large barn owl that sat in search of prey in his garden. After some time, he moved on to the sheer draperies that framed the windows, then the grand piano that sat on the other side of the room. Once that was done, he looked off into the distance, his mind wondering in search of something to sketch. Unconsciously, he began to sketch out a few lines, and, looking down, he was surprised to see he had begun to draw a face.

Basil bit his lip and glanced at the sleeping man on his loveseat. Surely, there was no harm in a simple sketch. After all, how was anyone to know? He took a deep breath and began with the face, careful to capture every detail, including the heavy shadows beneath his eyes. In one quick stroke, he captured the chiseled line of his jaw. A shadow here, and there were the dimples that had charmed him so completely the day they had met. Some quick lines there, and there were the eyelashes that brushed his cheekbones when he laughed. When he reached his mouth, he hesitated. Carefully, he sculpted the upper lip, capturing the subtle upturn at the corner that always betrayed a small smile. From there, he drew the curve of his bottom lip, plump and so often swollen from being bitten. Unconsciously, Basil caught his own lip between his teeth as he shaded it in.

Nearly three quarters of an hour had passed as Basil sketched out the younger man. He was just beginning to sketch the smaller details of the room, such as the walls and floor, when he heard a soft voice say, “Capturing my good side, are you?”

Basil froze, mortified. “I…do forgive me, my friend,” he stammered. “I was only trying to stay awake.”

Dorian smiled gently, although his eyes remained closed. “I was only teasing,” he assured the older man. Then, after a moment’s pause, he softly inquired, “May I see it?”

Basil hesitated, glancing at the unfinished sketch. “It’s nothing more than a doodle, really,” he protested.

Finally, Dorian opened his eyes, and Basil melted at the sight of him, all tousled hair and drowsy eyes. Truly, how could he refuse him when he looked like that? Slowly, the young man sat up and patted the cushion beside him, the blanket falling in a heap in his lap.

Basil sighed and joined his friend on the sofa. He handed him the sketchbook and averted his gaze as Dorian studied the picture. “Pretty,” he murmured after some time.

This was not the reaction Basil had been expecting. “Yes, well,” he stammered. “It helps, having a lovely subject.”

Dorian glanced up at his friend and noticed, despite the dim lighting of the room, that he was blushing furiously. “May I be honest with you my friend?” he asked suddenly.

Basil glanced at Dorian in surprise. “Of course. I should hope for nothing less.”

Dorian hesitated for a moment. Tracing a gentle finger across the page, he quietly admitted, “I like this piece better than your portrait.”

Basil raised a brow in surprise. Before its hideous possession, his portrait had been his masterpiece, truly a turning point in his career as an artist. And here, his subject, arguably the most beautiful man he had ever met, was telling him it did not compare to a mere sketch. “That is…surprising,” he said finally.

Dorian glanced at his friend. “Do not misunderstand my meaning,” he said. “Before your portrait became what it is now, it was truly a magnificent piece. However…” He glanced back at the sketch in his hands, a small smile pulling at his lips. “This feels more…honest, I suppose. Less like a costume, and more like who I am.” He smiled a wry smile. “A tired, mess of a man.”

Basil regarded the younger man in confusion. “Is that truly how you see yourself?” he wondered.

“Anyone who believes that they are more than a walking catastrophe who is merely trying to find their place in the world is either deluded or a liar,” Dorian answered earnestly. “No one ever truly knows what they are doing. We are all just stumbling along in the dark, hoping we find our way.” He cast an almost sheepish glance at the older man. “I think I may have found that with you. Harry was a mirage, a beautiful lie. Every time I would reach out for his light, it would slip through my fingers, and I realized it was much farther away than I thought. No matter how close I thought I was, his light stayed steadily out of reach. But Basil, you are the candle that has always been by my side. You are the light that has enveloped me and pulled me out of darkness.”

Basil was at a loss for words. Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, he said, “My friend, you humble me. Truly, I do not know how to respond to such kindness.”

“It was not meant to be kindness,” Dorian admitted. “It was…more of a confession.” After studying the sketch once more, he asked, “May I buy it?”

“The sketch?” Basil asked in surprise. “It is hardly worth anything.”

“It is worth everything to me,” Dorian disagreed. “Simply name your price.”

Basil shook his head. “My friend, if it means so much to you, then it is yours.”

Dorian smiled so joyously it made Basil want to weep for how beautiful he was. He was like the sun. Even waning, he was brilliant. “Oh, Basil,” he murmured, carefully tearing the page from the sketchbook. “I can not thank you enough. You have given me myself.”

Basil regarded the young man curiously. “It is strange…Sometimes, I feel as though I do not understand you,” he said softly, then bit his lip, certain he had offended his friend.

The younger man merely smirked as he said, “That is alright. I scarcely understand myself.”

Basil could not help but laugh at this. Even in the face of supernatural horror, Dorian was wholly himself. The older man regarded this as not only strength, but bravery as well. Despite himself, he reached out and squeezed his hand, hoping to convey what he felt without seeming foolish.

Dorian smiled softly and leaned against Basil’s shoulder. Once again, the older man stiffened, and the lad pulled away in concern. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “If it bothers you…”

“No,” Basil assured, that endearing flush returning to his face. “I mean, it is fine. It does not bother me. I simply was not expecting it, is all.” He squeezed Dorian’s hand once more and said, “Truly, Dorian. Be as you were.”

Slowly, the lad leaned back in, his cheek resting against the older man’s shoulder. Basil sighed, savoring the young man’s warmth. After a moment’s hesitation, he slowly pressed his nose into his hair and closed his eyes, breathing in the musky scent that was uniquely Dorian Gray.

The pair stayed like that for a long while, simply basking in the comfort of each other’s presence. It was quiet for so long, Basil thought perhaps the lad had once again fallen asleep until, suddenly, he spoke. “Basil. There’s been something on my mind as of late.”

Basil opened his eyes, watching as the lad tapped his fingers against his knee, as if to play a song only he could hear. He waited, but he said nothing more. “Dorian?” he asked, trying to coax more out of the lad.

Finally, Dorian cleared his throat and continued. “Yes, well. In regards to you, actually. I have done a great deal of pondering.”

Basil furrowed his brow. “What about me, my friend?” he wondered.

Dorian stopped tapping his knee and pulled back a bit, just enough to look the older man in the eye. His expression was heavy with something he could not quite name, and he was just about to speak when the young man leaned forward and brushed his lips against his.

Basil froze, every nerve in his body lighting up as Dorian gently kissed him. Finally, he pulled away and looked up at Basil with nervous eyes. “Was that alright?” he asked, almost shyly.

In lieu of an answer, Basil cradled the lad’s face in his hands and returned the kiss. In that moment, words failed him. He had never been particularly well versed, so he let his actions speak for him instead. In response, Dorian sighed and pulled him closer, running his hands down the front of his shirt until they came to rest against his chest.

Basil felt certain Dorian could feel the pounding of his heart, however, he could not find it within himself to care. He turned a bit and placed his hands against the lad’s hips, pulling him close until he was sitting in his lap. He moaned softly against Basil’s lips, and, by god, it was enough to drive him mad. He tangled his fingers in those perfect golden curls, relishing the feeling of his warm breath against his mouth. “Basil,” Dorian murmured against his lips, sending a shiver throughout his entire body.

Basil pulled away just enough to leave a trail of kisses along his jaw, murmuring between each kiss, “Oh, my lovely boy, my beautiful Dorian.”

Dorian titled his head back and moaned, and the sight of him made Basil want to weep. Almost without thinking, he pulled at the buttons of his shirt until they came loose, and he ran his hands against the smooth, unmarred skin. “Oh, darling boy,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against the nape of his neck.

Dorian hummed and pulled off his jacket, then his shirt, letting them fall to the floor as he combed his fingers through Basil’s dark hair. “You know,” he said softly, eyes closing as he Basil pressed another kiss to his collarbone. “I think I enjoy hearing you call me your boy.”

“You will always be my boy, Dorian,” Basil promised, pulling at the buttons of his own shirt. A flurry of garments fall to the floor, and he held the lad close, feeling as though he were burning, and Dorian was cool, soothing rain. Sighing against his throat, he said once more, “Should you desire it, you will always be my boy.”

“I do desire it,” Dorian assured him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I desire that and more.”

“Tell me what more you desire, my darling. I shall do everything in my power to give it to you.”

Dorian wrapped his arms around the artist’s shoulders. In lieu of an answer, he pressed another kiss to his mouth, hungry and desperate, full of the desire he had been longing to express.

Basil gasped. Cradling the lad’s face in his hands, he kissed him back hard, and with that they were both lost. They fell back against the cushions, spending the rest of the night painting testaments of their love on each other’s skin. In the silence between their breaths, there could heard the cry of a single barn owl, which turned its back on Basil Hallward’s garden and launched itself into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, 84 years later, it is here! I will do my best to update regularly. Let me know what you think below!


	6. Icarus Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys regroup, desperate to form a plan against Harry's latest attack.

Basil awoke that morning before the break of dawn, just as the sky began to lighten from black to navy. He lay there for a while, simply basking in the warmth of the young man curled against his chest, and as he stroked his golden curls, he could not help but feel as if he were in a dream, some hazy unreality between unconsciousness and consciousness where everything was warm and soft to the touch. With their bare skin pressed together, so close that they almost seemed to blend into one another, he felt certain that this was what heaven was meant to feel like. However, as the birds began their singing, he knew they did not have very much time left, and, as much as the idea upset him, he had to awaken the lad from his slumber. Gently, he nudged his shoulder and whispered, “Dorian, wake up.”

Dorian sighed, still lost in his dreams, and snuggled closer to the man. He pressed his nose against the nape of his neck, and the feeling of the lad’s breath on his throat made him shiver. In that moment, he would have given anything to spend the rest of the morning like this, his boy pressed against his chest, the world nothing but a whisper beyond the garden. However, the higher the sun rose, the more dangerous it was for him to remain, and so he nudged him again. “My darling,” he said, gentle yet firm. “You must wake up.”

Finally, drowsily, Dorian opened his eyes, and the older man wanted to weep for how beautiful he looked, hair a tousled mess, cheeks flushed from the warmth of their shared body heat. Despite himself, he pressed a kiss to the lad’s forehead.

Dorian sighed in contentment, his lips gently brushing his skin. “Good morning, my dearest.”

Those words alone were enough to send shivers down Basil’s entire body. It felt like a crime to make him leave, when all he wanted was to shower him with the affection and adoration he deserved. “It’s almost time, darling.”

The younger man looked up at him with heavy eyes, not quite comprehending what Basil was telling him. He did not have the heart to say it directly, to explain why he could not stay, so instead, he turned his gaze out the windows to the sky beyond, where, just barely, there could be seen a hint of rose against the horizon.

Dorian followed his gaze, and all at once, he understood. Obstinately, he buried his face into Basil’s chest. “Five more minutes,” he grumbled, his voice muffled.

Basil sighed, but let him remain. Idly, he traced a finger up along his spine, and he felt the lad shiver against him. If it were up to him, he would spend the rest of the morning caressing every inch of his soft, smooth skin, listening to him whimper and sigh as he had mere hours ago. “Alright, but five minutes only.”

The young man sighed, tickling the hairs on Basil’s chest. “I don’t want to go,” he whispered pensively.

Basil’s heart broke, and he pulled the boy close, burying his face in his hair as he confessed, “I do not want you to go, either.”

“I could stay,” the younger man insisted, looking up at Basil with almost pleading eyes. “Neither of our schedules are particularly full today. We could stay here, watch the sunrise, and I could play you the rest of that song I have been working on.” He flashed a mischievous grin. “I would not even need to get dressed.”

Basil could not help but chuckle at that, and he let himself imagine a world in which they did not have to go their separate ways. They would lounge lazily across the loveseat, basking in each other’s warmth, until they rose for breakfast, spending the morning in blissful peace, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Dorian would play his beautiful song, and Basil would sit there beside him, staring in wonder at his long, delicate fingers as they danced across the keys. It was a beautiful fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. “You know what they would say, darling,” he said finally, quietly.

He felt Dorian frown against his chest. “Would it be foolish to say I do not care what people would say?”

“It is not just about what they may say,” Basil pointed out. “It is about what they may do.” He felt a twinge of fear at the thought of word getting out, of the disgusted looks, the whispers, the possibility of a trial.

Dorian tensed against him, and he knew this had not occurred to him. He sighed and traced a finger against his chest until it hovered just above his naval. “It’s not fair,” he lamented softly. “I am well acquainted with sin, it is true, and I can say with the upmost certainty that this is the closest to God I have felt in years. How can it be said that this is the work of the devil?”

Basil sighed. It was a question he often asked himself in the dead of night, in those quiet moments when his longing was so profound he felt certain it would crush him, leaving behind nothing in its place except an overwhelming desire to be loved, to be understood. “People fear what they can not comprehend,” he said finally. “It has always been so.”

“It’s not fair,” the lad said again, his voice wavering.

Basil closed his eyes, hoping to push back against the sting of tears that threatened to spill over. “No,” he agreed. “It is not.”

The two lay in silence for a few minutes more, trying to hold on to this moment for as long as possible. Finally, as the room grew brighter, and golden tendrils of light began to stretch from across the garden and into the studio, it could be put off no longer. “It is time, my darling.”

Dorian glanced up at him with sad eyes, and he had to look away. He could not weep, not now. There would be time enough for that later. For now, he had to be strong.

Sighing, the lad sat up and swung his feet to the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached down for his trousers, which lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. As he struggled to untangle his clothes, Basil reached out and ran his fingers down his back, prompting him to shiver and sigh. Casting a pensive glance back, he said, “You’re making it rather difficult to leave.”

“Forgive me,” Basil murmured, but he made no move to pull away. If this was to be their final moments together, he decided he was going to savor it.

Dorian sighed once more and pulled on his trousers. After a moment of silence, he said, “I suppose we should go and see Alan today.”

Beneath the glow of the time they spent together, Basil had nearly forgotten how dire their situation had become. He remembered Harry’s eyes, wide and unblinking, as he gazed at Dorian, who had appeared enraptured, like a mouse hypnotized by a snake. “Yes, I think that would be wise. It is imperative that he knows what exactly Harry is capable of.”

“I can send word to him when I return home,” Dorian offered, reaching for his wrinkled shirt. “Shall we count on arriving at his estate at roughly two o’clock?”

Basil nodded and sat up, the blanket laying in a heap across his lap. “If it works for Alan, then that is fine by me.”

Dorian nodded and leaned back into his touch, savoring this small moment between them before finally standing. He bent down to collect his jacket and silently pulled it on, a miserable look in his eye.

“I wish I knew how to comfort you,” Basil admitted softly. He longed to reach out for him, to console him, but he knew that would only make him feel worse.

“Your presence is the only comfort I need,” the young man assured him. He smiled, melancholy and sweet, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, his hands resting on his shoulders.

Basil sighed and melted into the kiss, his fingers tangling in the lad’s hair. He thought perhaps he could live to be a thousand years old and never tire of his lover’s touch, his lips warm on his skin, like a kiss from the sun.

Finally, tragically, Dorian pulled away. “As painful as it is to be apart, I would much rather have small moments such as these rather than nothing at all,” he said, placing a hand against the older man’s cheek. “I refuse to sit and sulk. I have the glorious memory of what we have shared here together, and that alone will keep me warm.” He smiled his trademark grin, full of mischief, before adding, “Until next time, anyway.”

Basil could not help but snort at the young man’s bravado. “Go on, my dear,” he said, not unkindly. “Parker will be up soon. I will join you at Alan’s at two.”

Dorian smiled and placed one final kiss to Basil’s cheek. Then, before he could lose his resolve, he turned and left the studio, leaving the artist to stare after him, longing written plainly on his face.

The morning air was refreshingly cool, and Dorian stretched his arms over his head, feeling invigorated. After he had hailed a cab, he leaned back in his seat and let himself recall the events of the past twelve hours. He had to admit, as soft spoken and reserved as Basil tended to be, he did not expect him to be so…proficient. His face grew warm at the memory of his hands on his skin, and the sweet, loving words he had whispered in his ear. He had been so gentle with him, in a way that was both maddening and endearing. But, oh, the look on his face when he had told him that he was not a fragile, delicate creature, that he could stop being so careful, it was like seeing him for the first time. He had looked upon the lad with so much adoration and desire that, even now, it made him shiver. Held tightly in Basil’s embrace, he had all but forgotten the nightmare Harry had made of his life.

Dorian frowned as the carriage finally rolled to a stop at his house. The situation with Harry needed to be dealt with as soon as possible. As soon as he paid the cabbie, he headed toward the front door, taking care to open it as quietly as possible. He did not believe it would be difficult to concoct an excuse for his prolonged absence, but he would prefer if he had some extra time to come up with one. He made a beeline for his bedroom and, after quietly shutting the door, he took a seat at his desk to begin composing a letter to Alan.

The envelope had just been sealed by the time Victor entered the room. “Oh, monsieur,” he said, appearing surprised. “I did not think you would be up so soon. I did not hear you come home last night.”

“Yes, I got in rather late,” Dorian responded carefully. “It is of little importance. Now, I have a job for you, Victor. Please ensure that this letter is delivered to Mr. Alan Campbell. It is rather time sensitive.”

“At once, monsieur,” Victor said, taking the letter and heading out the door. As soon as he was gone, Dorian changed into a fresh set of clothes. However, before placing his old, wrinkled shirt in the hamper, he held it a moment to his nose. Taking a deep breath, he smiled at the scent of his lover still clinging to the fabric. Glancing around his room, he found he was at a loss for what to do. More than anything, he wanted to return to Basil, to curl up on his loveseat and watch him paint the sunrise they had witnessed together a mere hour ago.

Eyes widening, he shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out Basil’s sketch from last night. He ran a careful finger along the delicate curve of his body, awkwardly shaded in some places where the graphite had smeared. As he marveled over the magic the artist had woven into every stroke, he decided that this was the kind of man he wanted to be; flawed, yet soft around the edges, heart heavy with wonder for the world. He did not want to be the twisted, decadence-drunk creature Harry was trying so hard to shape him into.

Dorian held the picture to his chest for a moment before slipping it inside the journal he kept on his desk. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was just barely past ten o’clock, and he figured he may as well have breakfast. However, every bite was like a lump of gruel sitting heavy in his stomach, and he pushed away his nearly full plate. The morning was passing by at a painstakingly slow pace. He was full of restless energy, and he wandered about in search of something to do. He sat for a bit at his piano, figuring he may as well fine tune the song he had been working on, but it only reminded him of his lover, and how he had played for him the night before. The memory of it made his heart ache, so he decided instead to browse the vast collection of books he kept in his bedroom, the ones that were far too near and dear to his heart to stow away in the study. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he browsed the lower shelves in search of something to read. He was not feeling particularly poetic or adventurous, so he avoided Emerson and Thoreau. He had a handful of biographies, but none that he found particularly captivating at present. He sighed, ready to give up and perhaps go for a walk, when he noticed a worn, yellow cover tucked neatly between a collection of poetry by Emily Dickinson and a tragic love story by Henry James.

Dorian took in a sharp breath. He had all but forgotten about this book, one that Harry had given to him some time ago. Strangely enough, he had opted out all of their usual haunts and instead invited the lad to his home, where they talked and drank until well past two. At one point, Dorian could not help but wonder if they were disturbing Lady Henry with their noise, but Harry merely shook his head.

“Certainly not,” Harry had assured him. “By nine o’clock, the woman is utterly unconscious. I suspect the house could be ravaged by fire and flood, and she would continue to snore the night away.”

After some time, he had led Dorian into his study, where he showed him the book. He had held it reverently, as if it were holy, and gifted it to him.

“Oh, Harry,” he had protested. “I haven’t the energy to read the paper these days, much less a novel.”

“You will read this one,” Harry insisted. “It lays bare all that I am. Should you read it, you will know my soul better than anyone in the world.”

Dorian had thought Harry was being uncharacteristically sentimental, but he accepted the book, reading it as often as his exhausted mind would allow, and found that he had been telling the truth. Every page lay bare another part him, until it almost felt like an extension of him. The lad had been fascinated, almost giddy to be given something so personal and raw, and he had felt flattered that Harry had wanted to share such an intimate part of himself with him.

Now, however, Dorian looked upon the cover with revulsion. The protagonist lived his life untethered by attachments or morality, and instead he traveled the world in search of every known pleasure under the sun. The lad could not help but admit that, in theory, the protagonist’s endeavors sounded fascinating. He explored every subject, from the arts and sciences, to much more unseemly ventures, such as mind-altering substances and the pleasures of the flesh. However, as he stared at the book in his hands, he felt could not help but feel disgusted. It was as if he were reading not only about Harry, but himself as well. The protagonist sought out new experiences just for the sake of the sensation it gave him, drowning himself in people, drugs, and more just so he could feel something. The book felt just as revealing as the cursed portrait, exposing every sin he had committed at his lowest point.

Hastily, he shoved the book back onto the shelf and stood. That was not the person he wanted to be, not now, and not ever again. He was tired of drowning himself just so he could hide from his feelings. When he had played piano, it was not to silence the noise in his head, but to release something new and unheard of into the world. When he had kissed Basil, it was because words had failed him in that moment of tenderness, and he had wanted to convey just how deeply he cared for him. When they had made love, the pleasure had scarcely mattered. He had pulled Basil closer because he relished the intimacy, the knowledge that he saw every flawed piece of himself, and he loved him all the more for it. It had felt wonderful, certainly, but it would have been worth nothing if he had not already loved him so.

Dorian froze as the realization set in. Yes, he was in love with Basil Hallward. He loved him for all his flaws, which only served to make him more human. Loving him was an honor and a privilege, and he would much rather be in the company of someone who loved with his entire being than spend his time with someone who thought love was a weak and foolhardy emotion.

Glancing at the clock, he saw it was a quarter past noon, and he went off to have lunch, which proved to be just as unremarkable as breakfast. Once he was finished, he grabbed his jacket and headed outside to hail a cab, trying all the while to formulate some sort of plan. Unfortunately, he had been so out of sorts at the party, he had no way of knowing if Harry’s hypnotic power had come from his poisonous words, his unblinking eyes, or perhaps both. The only thing he could possibly do next the time they were together would be to avoid eye contact, but he would be unable to do so for long without appearing suspicious. It was imperative that Harry remain ignorant of Dorian’s change in demeanor toward him, and as astute as he was, he was certain to notice if the lad began to avoid his gaze. Of course, he could simply stop attending any social events in which Harry would be in attendance, but such a drastic measure could only be possible in small increments. He could feign illness or prior engagements all he wanted, but over time, Harry would begin to question his constant absence, and he would not be the only one. The lad was a well known individual, and all of London was certain to notice if he suddenly slipped back into solitude.

Dorian groaned as he rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. The whole affair was entirely overwhelming. He could only hope that Alan would have a solution to this latest predicament.

At ten ‘til two, his carriage pulled to a stop in front of Alan’s manor. Stepping out, Dorian paid the cabbie and headed toward the front door. He knocked and took a step back, hoping Alan had received his message in time.

After several moments, the door opened, and Alan regarded the lad curiously. “Ah, Dorian,” he greeted. “Please come in. I understand it is urgent?”

“Very much so, yes,” Dorian answered as he entered the foyer. As he removed his jacket and shoes, he looked around. “Has Basil arrived yet?” he wondered, hoping his tone conveyed an air of nonchalance.

Alan took Dorian’s coat and hung it on the coat rack. “Yes, he is waiting in the parlor,” he said. “You go ahead and join him. I will be in shortly.”

Dorian nodded and headed down the hall, heart thumping in anticipation. He entered the sun-soaked parlor, and there he was by the window, staring up at the sky with a preoccupied expression. Without giving a thought to stealth or discretion, the lad wrapped his arms around his waist, burying his face just between his shoulder blades.

Just like before, Basil tensed for a moment before slowly relaxing. Even so, he reached out to close the curtains. “Perhaps not here, my darling,” he murmured. However, he did not stop himself from running his fingers along the lad’s arms.

Dorian scowled, making no attempt to pull away. “I can scarcely imagine Alan finding offense to a simple embrace, my dearest,” he protested, rubbing a cheek against his shoulders like a cat in search of warmth.

Basil shivered and sighed. In truth, he very much wanted to stay as he was, but he turned to face the younger man, who looked up at him with lighthearted defiance. As he studied him, he felt certain he would never grow used to his beauty. There was fire within him that he had not seen in close to two years, and it made it next to impossible to try to argue. He tucked back a stray curl, letting his fingers linger a moment before admitting, “Alan is not the one I am worried about.”

Dorian’s eyes softened. Gently, he reached up to cup the man’s face, his thumb tracing the subtle line of his cheekbone as he said, “My dear Basil, I refuse to let fear keep me from loving you with my entire being.

_Loving you. _Basil was at a loss for words. Perhaps the lad was being foolhardy, but his passionate resolve frightened and endeared him in equal measure. Almost without thinking, he pressed a kiss to his brow as the words echoed about in his head. _Loving you. Loving you._

“Oh,” came a voice from the front of the parlor. The two men turned to see Alan standing in the doorway, a tea tray in his hands and a rather embarrassed expression on his face. “Do forgive me, my friends,” he apologized, setting the tray on the coffee table. “I did not mean to intrude.”

Basil cleared his throat and took a step back, blushing profusely, but Dorian merely smiled. “You are quite alright, Alan,” the younger man assured. “I thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”

“It is no problem at all,” Alan said with a smile, looking much more at ease. “If you are both ready, we may begin.”

Dorian joined Basil on the love-seat, waiting until Alan had poured them all a cup of tea before beginning. “He has some kind of hold over my mind, Alan. When he speaks to me, it as if I am being enveloped in a great, thick fog, and all I want to do is please him, to agree with everything that he says. It is only because Basil was there beside me at that I am here now.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “It frightens me to admit it, but, if it had not been for him, I would be wherever he is now, soaking in his poisonous words like a sponge, half dead and lost.”

Basil placed a gentle hand on the lad’s trembling shoulder as Alan pondered this. He took a sip of his tea, eyes wide and thoughtful before finally saying, “I see. That is certainly unexpected.”

“Surely, you must know of some way to combat such sorcery,” Basil said. “This changes things. How can Dorian be expected to free himself from his spell when his mere presence leaves him so vulnerable?”

Alan set down his teacup and leaned back in his chair, contemplating this new information. “Truth be told, I did not expect him to be so powerful. I have no record of an alchemist who can influence the thoughts and actions of a human being. It is unprecedented.”

“There must be something you can do,” Dorian insisted. “It is not as if I can simply stop associating with him. He will surely grow suspicious.”

Alan furrowed his brow, thinking hard as he tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “It is unprecedented,” he said again. “Explain to me the exact effect he had on you.”

Dorian went into extensive detail explaining the heavy fog that had clouded his judgement, as if being in Harry’s presence had made him intoxicated. All the while Alan listened, chewing nervously at his lip. “Hmm,” he hummed quietly once the lad was finished. “He must have traded something incredibly valuable to have become so powerful. I can not fathom what that could be. An alchemist can not obtain anything without giving away something of equal value. It is the law of equivalent exchange.”

Just then, a thought occurred to the lad. “There was a moment,” he began slowly. “It is foggy, but I remember Basil gripping my shoulder. It stung, but just then, the strange hold he had over me began to fade.”

Basil winced. “Oh, do forgive me, my friend,” he apologized. “It certainly was not my intention to hurt you.”

“No, no, Basil, you may have done us a service here,” Alan said, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “Dorian, you say it was difficult to form thoughts that did not pertain to Harry, that is, until Basil administered a sting that cleared your mind?”

“Indeed.” The lad glanced at Basil sheepishly. “Do not be upset, my friend. It did wonders in helping me think.”

“A fascinating breakthrough,” Alan murmured. “And one we must keep in mind. It would appear that pain, at the very least, could serve as a shield of sorts should he ever try to control you again.”

“So, you are saying that Dorian must injure himself in order to think through Harry’s spell?” Basil did not appear particularly happy about this.

“It would appear so, yes.”

It was quiet for a long while, each man lost in his respective thoughts. “It feels like a violation of sorts,” Dorian said finally, quietly. “Yes, it is certainly a violation. To be rendered so utterly helpless, I must physically harm myself to break free. What sort of life can be had from this? The man has stolen my soul, and now he has stolen my own free will. What more could he possibly take from me? What more does he want?” His voice had risen, forceful, almost desperate, and he forced himself to be silent, angry tears spilling over his cheeks.

Basil reached out to the lad, gripping his hand tight. “Do not lose faith, my friend. You have some kind of defense against the man, at least. It is less than ideal, but it is yours, and yours alone.” His brow furrowed, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps we have been looking at this all wrong. Perhaps there is something we are not seeing, some way to combat this sorcery.” He cast a glance at Alan. “I don’t suppose you have anymore volumes on the subject, would you, Alan?”

“Unfortunately, I do not,” Alan answered, looking contrite. “I have only the journal, and we have gone over it many times.”

“Once more, then,” Basil decided. “Surely there is something that we have missed within your notes.”

The trio spent the rest of the afternoon pouring over Alan’s notes, which proved to be a frustratingly confusing read. Each case was so utterly ambiguous that it was nearly impossible to connect them all together, and, not for the first time, Dorian could not help but be amazed by Alan’s genius in deciphering and connecting each case on his own. As he scanned the pages, he felt certain they were written in some strange, unknown language he had only the faintest grasp on. It would appear the only constant between his own experience and those within the journal was the emergence of a mysterious mentor, a strange obsession with a seemingly ordinary object, and a peculiar death. However, the similarities began and ended with these three facts alone, as each case appeared to be entirely dependent upon the victims themselves. With each page turned, the death toll rose higher, and Dorian sat back in his chair in dismay. “This business appears to be a death sentence,” he said grimly. “Haven’t you encountered anyone who survived their ordeal?”

Alan furrowed his brow and began to flip through the pages. “To the best of my knowledge, only one such account exists.” He stopped on a page that contained a newspaper clipping titled Mad Man Charged With Murder!. “Several years ago, Herbert Callahan was charged with the murder of Mr. Stewart Baxter, of whom he had known for several years, and had been well acquainted. They were known to travel everywhere together, from South America to Asia. One day, the neighbors reported a great commotion coming from Callahan’s home, and police arrived to find Baxter dead, beaten to death with a rock the two had found in the Himalayas.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. “The Himalayan salt rocks.”

Alan nodded. “Yes, it was here I made the connection. It is believed the two had argued severely over Callahan’s decision to bring the rock home with him, but he was a collector, you see. I am unsure as to how Callahan came to the same conclusion, but it had proven to be rather effective. However, he was understandably hysterical when he was discovered, ranting about how Baxter had ‘stolen’ his soul, and ‘cursed’ his very existence. He was determine to be insane, and he was hauled off to Bedlam the next day.”

Dorian winced, horrified at the thought. “That is not particularly comforting.”

“At least he is alive,” Basil offered, reaching out to place a gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder.

Dorian flinched and stood, suddenly feeling very claustrophobic. “And what exactly is that worth?” he demanded. “It is becoming increasingly apparent that there are only two options left to me: let madness consume me until Harry’s poison finally kills me, or I commit the most unholy of sins, and be carted away to the nearest madhouse, wasting away until there is nothing left of me. How am I possibly expected to choose between two horrendous scenarios?”

Basil stood, but did not approach the lad. He understood that he needed space, much like an agitated lion, tail twitching in fury. “I promise you, neither of those things will happen,” he insisted. “We will find some middle ground that does not result in your death or incarceration.”

“And what about Harry’s death?” Dorian retorted. “How is killing a man, no matter how sinister, meant to restore soul to me? I am no god, nor am I a judge. It is not for me to decide who gets to live or die.”

To this, Basil did not know what to say. However, to his surprise, it was Alan who spoke. “Listen to me, Dorian. Do you suppose the lion frets over the death of he who threatens his pride? This is about more than your life. Your very being is at stake, perhaps the being of everyone in London. Let us suppose, for a moment, that Harry decides to loosen his group. Will his gaze not turn to some other hapless young man? Certainly, no one here wants you to murder Harry, but, should the need arise, you can not allow yourself to hesitate.”

Just then, the lad found his thoughts turn to Matthew Boyle, and he shivered in revulsion. “I refuse to discuss this. Not now.” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “This has all been so much. I must go clear my head.”

He went to the door, and Basil hesitated, unsure if he should follow him. “Do you suppose that’s wise, going out on your own? Do you wish for me to join you?”

Dorian glanced back at the man, brow furrowed with indecision. “Oh, Basil. Any other time I would relish your company, but no, I must be on my own for a bit. You are, and I mean this as the highest of compliments, entirely too distracting, and I must remained focused.” He went to the man and squeezed his hand. “Worry not. I will return within the hour.” With that, he turned and left the study.

Basil waited until he heard the slam of the front door before returning to his seat. “The poor boy,” he sighed. “I can scarcely imagine what he is feeling. It can be no small thing, to consider taking the life of a fellow human being.”

“That would be true,” Alan commented, “if Harry were, in fact, a human being. He has long since made his true self known.” He frowned. “However, I can empathize. Harry was his friend, and yours. To betray him in such a way…” He shook his head. “Truly, he is a demon.”

“Alan, be honest. Do you believe Dorian can emerge from this unscathed?”

Alan sighed and turned in his chair, staring out the window at the waning daylight. “Honestly, I am unsure,” he admitted. “You are all counting on me, but the truth is, there is only so much I know. The world of an alchemist is vast and mostly unexplored. There is still so much that we do not know.”

“You have already helped him, Alan,” Basil assured him. “More so than you could possibly know. We would not know everything we know now without you.”

Alan gave a small smile. A faint flush had risen in his face, and Basil figured that he was unused to praise. “Yes, well, I can promise you this: I will explore the subject tirelessly, for as long as it takes until we find the answers we seek.”

This gave Basil an idea. “Yes, please do so. In the meantime, I shall send Parker to acquire some books on demonology. Surely, someone somewhere has noticed the same pattern of behavior, the same sequence of events that you yourself discovered. I know it is unlikely, but perhaps there is something within such texts that will show us the correct course of action in dealing with such a creature.”

“I think that would be wise,” Alan agreed. “Although, I would advise you to use caution. I am certain it will look most peculiar for you to appear suddenly interested in such a topic. London will be sure to talk, and if word got back to Harry, well, I do not want to think about what would happen.”

“It is no matter,” Basil assured him. “Harry and I are hardly on speaking terms these days, and at any rate, if suspicions arise, I will merely say that I am working on a biblical piece. After all, religion is the most common theme in art, even if one is not aware of it.”

“Indeed.” Alan paused, appearing lost in thought. Suddenly, he said, “It is certainly none of my business, but I would advise you to exercise caution in other respects, as well.”

Basil frowned, confused. “I am afraid I do not understand, my friend.”

Alan bit his lip, but said nothing. Instead, his gaze drifted over the artist’s shoulder, and Basil turned, following his gaze out the door, toward the front of the house where Dorian had disappeared.

All at once, Alan’s meaning became plain, and he felt himself flush. “I assure you,” he said, his tone indignant. “I am unsure of what exactly you are insinuating.”

“Please, Basil,” Alan insisted, eyes kind and heavy with worry. “I wish for nothing more than your honesty. You know what people will do if they find out. All it takes is a whisper for London to mob.”

Basil bit his lip, his gaze falling to the floor. “It’s not-it is fine, Alan,” he stammered. “We are being careful.”

“I pray so,” Alan answered. “For both your sakes. Things are dangerous enough as it is.”

Just then, the two men heard the front door slam shut, and there was Dorian, face flushed from the cool evening wind. He looked a bit lighter, perhaps, but still very upset.

“How was your walk, my friend?” Basil ventured. “Did you find it helpful?”

“Minimally so,” the lad murmured, returning to his seat. “I was unable to come to any solution that does not result in Harry’s death or my own.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, looking exhausted.

“Listen, my friend. We have been at this all evening. Perhaps we should rest up for the night, and we can reconvene later in the week. In the meantime, I have made a note to send Parker off to acquire some reading that may benefit us. We can spend the next few days going over them.”

The lad considered this. “I suppose it is worth looking into.” He cast a glance to Alan. “Please do not think me ungrateful, my friend. I will be forever indebted to you for all the help you have given myself and Basil.”

“The idea had never crossed my mind,” Alan assured him. “Certainly, I could never blame you for your frustration. When we have exhausted all means of research, we must look to outside resources.” He smiled. “You two would make a fine pair of scientists, were you so inclined.”

At this, Dorian finally smiled. “Surely not. I haven’t the mind for such matters. They confound me so.”

“And I am certainly too much of an artist to make a decent scientist,” Basil chimed in.

“All of science is an artistry of sorts,” Alan disagreed. “Is it not the same, studying something beautiful and rare, using a variety of mediums to capture it in an effort to try to understand it? Perhaps art and science are not quite so different.”

Dorian’s eyes widened in surprise as Basil chuckled good-naturedly. He had had no idea that Alan had such thoughts in his head. Perhaps there was more to him than he had initially thought.

The pair rose to leave, and Alan walked them to the door. “Do get in touch with me if you happen to find anything of value,” he said, handing the men their coats.

“Certainly.” Dorian hesitated a moment, than reached out to shake his hand. “Thank you, Alan. Truly. Your help has been invaluable.”

A flush rose in his cheeks, and the lad could not help but realize how subtly handsome the man was. Had it not been for his reclusive manner and lack of interest, he certainly would have been married off ages ago. “You two are my friends. Dare I say, you are perhaps the truest friends I have had in many years. If you require anything, please let me know.”

“Indeed.” The trio said their goodbyes, and Dorian joined Basil out on the sidewalk, looking a little lost.

It was quiet for a few moments, each man’s thoughts racing with the information presented to them. Suddenly, Basil spoke. “Well, it is not quite so late. I don’t suppose you would want to get dinner.”

The lad perked up. He had not even realized how hungry he was, but now, his stomach growled uncomfortably. “Yes, I would love to,” he began, then he hesitated. “Wait, should we? What if Harry were to see us together?”

Basil frowned. “Hmm, that is true.” He was quiet a moment, then he said, “Would you object to dinner at my estate?”

Dorian’s heart fluttered in his chest, like a caged bird finally set free. “No, I should think I would not.”

Dinner was a pleasant affair, the two men chatting and eating with an easy sort of warmth. There was something about Basil’s presence that put Dorian at ease, a peace that made him certain he never had to be any more or less than he was. Not once did they mention Harry’s name, of which he was immensely grateful.

Afterwards, as Basil led him to the front door, they passed by Parker, who was carrying several large bags. “Ah, good evening, sir,” he greeted. “I have just returned with the books you requested. Where would you like me to put them?”

“Oh, thank you so much, Parker. They need only go in the parlor. Would you like me to help you with those?”

“Oh, I can manage on my own, sir, but I thank you.” He shot a smile at Dorian. “Mr. Gray. Always a pleasure to see you.” With that, he went on his way.

Dorian stared after him curiously. “I have always liked Parker,” he said. “He is a kind soul, always pleasant to be around.”

“Yes, I think so, too,” Basil said with a smile. “He has always been like family to me.”

Suddenly, a thought occurred to the lad. “You know, it may not be worth anything, but if you are to delve into such research, I feel compelled to tell you about a book Harry loaned me some time ago. The title escapes me, but it is a little book, with a worn, yellow cover. It was quite difficult for me to read in the state I was in last year, but I could not help but notice some startling similarities between him and the protagonist. The story details the escapades of a morally repugnant man, travelling the world in search of every known pleasure, uncaring of the people he harms along the way.”

Basil wrinkled his nose with distaste. “How like Harry, to become engrossed in such a tale.”

“Indeed. He told me once it was holier to him than the bible, which I am certainly inclined to believe.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “It may prove to be a dead-end, but, perhaps, if we are to understand how his mind works, we should read it. Together.”

“Yes, that is a good idea,” Basil said. “We could certainly use all the help we can get.”

“Wonderful. In which case, I will bring it by tomorrow.”

The two stood in the doorway for several moments more, until finally, Basil cleared his throat. “Yes, well then. I suppose I should bid you goodnight.”

Dorian regarded the man, seeming indecisive. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and kissed him.

Basil gasped against his lips, tasting peaches and sunshine, and, like a drowning man, he kissed him back, cradling his face in his hands. He could never admit it, not aloud, and certainly not with Parker so close by, but he had longed for this moment since dawn, when he had had to watch him leave.

Finally, almost imperceptibly, the lad pulled away, their foreheads pressed together as he spoke softly. “I am sorry. I simply could not have ended the day without doing that, at least once.”

Basil laughed breathlessly. “I must say, I am happy you did.” He sighed as he tucked a stray curl behind the lad’s ear. “Oh, my darling. Perhaps you should go before I ask you to stay.”

“I would,” Dorian answered resolutely. “You know I would. You need only ask.”

Basil glanced nervously over his shoulder. He could not see him, but he knew Parker was not far away. “We had better not,” he decided, looking unhappy. “One overnight visit can be more or less explained away, but two is pushing our luck.”

“It is no matter,” Dorian assured him, gripping his hands tight. “I will be back tomorrow. There are infinitely more opportunities available to us in daylight than there are at night.”

Basil blushed furiously, and the lad chuckled, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek. “Be easy, my dearest. I am only halfway teasing. At any rate, I wanted to thank you for dinner. I can not remember the last time I have had a full meal and actually enjoyed it.”

“You are sincerely welcome, my darling.” He paused, feeling oddly choked up. “My home is always open to you. You know that, right?”

“I do. Truly, I do.” He seemed like he wanted to say something more, his eyes heavy and desperate for something. However, he merely cleared his throat and said, “Until tomorrow, my friend.” Before Basil could respond, he was out the door.

It hurt, having been so close to Basil, only to return home to a dark, empty house. It felt lonelier, somehow, and colder as well. The lad spent most of the night simply tossing and turning, longing to reach out to his lover, to pull him close, burying his face in his shoulder and breathing him in. However, he only grasped at empty air, and he told himself it was fine, that he would see him tomorrow, and every day for the foreseeable future, until they found something in one of Basil’s books that they could use. Even so, he felt as if he were floating in an endless sea, devoid of life, grasping at the waves as they knocked him further into its depths.

However, he found his solace in the daylight hours. Every day for the rest of the week, he would go to Basil’s estate, where they would go through every book Parker had found on the subject of demonology, as well as the yellow book that Harry had loaned him. Every time he brought it by, he kept it hidden away in an old satchel he had found in his closet, and as soon as they were finished with it, he would put it back in his satchel and return it to its usual place on his bookshelf. He had not seen Harry since the night of Matthew Boyle’s party, but, should he happen to stop by, he did not want to explain its sudden absence, nor the reason as to why he was taking it to Basil’s house.

Strangely enough, despite the severity of their predicament, their days spent reading in the parlor felt oddly peaceful. The subject they studied proved to be a gruesome affair, but when Dorian glanced up, he saw Basil carefully scanning through the pages of his current volume, brow furrowed, lost in thought, and he knew he was in good company. It was foolhardy, perhaps, but when he heard Parker’s footsteps pass by, off to work in some far-off part of the house, he would go to him, pulling the book from his hands as he sank into his lap, letting himself lose a handful of minutes. And if Parker noticed anything out of place when he delivered their tea, the flush of their skin, an unfastened button, he kept silent on the matter.

The following Monday, Dorian entered the parlor, ready for another day of studying, and he was startled to see Basil pacing the room, looking quietly alarmed.

“What is it?” Dorian wondered, setting his satchel on the coffee table. “My god, Basil, you look as if you have seen a ghost. Here, sit down.”

The lad urged him into the armchair, and he took a deep breath, looking shaken. “I have just received word,” Basil began. “It would appear that Matthew Boyle was found dead early this morning.”

Dorian’s eyes widened in shock. “My god. Oh, Basil, you will think me cruel, but I must say that shock is the only emotion I am feeling. I did not care for the man very much. My only interaction with him was rather unpleasant. He behaved in a despicable manner toward me at his party, and, if I am honest, it left me deeply uncomfortable.”

Basil glanced sharply at the lad. “Did he? In what way?”

Dorian swallowed hard. It was a moment that shamed him, and he did not wish to relay the details. “Despicable,” he repeated. “That is all that need be known. At any rate, it certainly won’t be happening again.”

Basil frowned, looking sympathetic. “I am terribly sorry, my darling. I knew he was a snake. I should never have allowed us to become separated.”

“Well, it scarcely matters now, doesn’t it?” Dorian forced a smile. “The Buddhists believe in karma, and I believe he got his."

“Well, that is the thing.” Basil rubbed the back of his neck, looking greatly disturbed. “They say they found him with a broken neck.”

“My god,” the lad whispered in horror. “Basil, I hate to ask it, but do you suspect he was murdered?”

The man furrowed his brow, looking lost in thought. “Well, I can not be sure,” he admitted. “After all, I was not there. However, they say when they found him, he was at the bottom of his stairs, surrounded by a variety of artists’ tools, paintbrushes and the like, as well as a journal of his.”

“I see,” Dorian murmured. “So, then, he was carrying them when he fell. Perhaps, he simply lost his footing.”

“Perhaps. But Dorian, I knew Boyle fairly well. His identity as an artist was mostly a front. The man scarcely knew what he was doing. He kept all his supplies in his studio, like props in a play, giving the appearance of some grand project. He left them there always, and he certainly never brought them upstairs to his living quarters.”

Dorian took a seat on the sofa, looking dazed. “So, then, you suspect a murderer killed Boyle, and scattered about his supplies and personal journal to make it appear as though he fell?”

“I do not know.” Basil sighed. “It just feels off, is all. He was a foolish man, it is true, but he was much more clever than he let on.”

“Hmm.” Dorian tapped his knee thoughtfully. “Certainly, if he treated anyone the way he treated me, he would have no shortage of enemies.”

Basil went to sit beside him, squeezing his hand tight. “I am so terribly sorry he treated you in such a way, my darling. We never should have attended that party.”

“Well, it is in the past now,” he assured him. “And I am certainly no stranger to bad encounters. Just look around you.” He gestured to the array of books laying scattered throughout the room. “Come, let us continue with our research. We are very close to finishing Harry’s yellow book.”

“Yes, indeed.” Basil reached over and dug through the satchel. “It is strange, but I can not help but feel as if every page is a deeper look into Harry’s soul. It is very disturbing.”

They passed the rest of the afternoon among their books, and as the sun began to set, Dorian could no longer keep himself from yawning. “Hmm, perhaps we should wrap things up for the night,” he suggested.

“Yes, good idea,” Basil agreed. He closed the yellow book and frowned at it. “What a perfectly shocking book. It is as if Harry himself wrote it.”

“Indeed.” Dorian flipped through the notes they had made, mostly similarities between the protagonist and Harry. “It feels like a leap of faith, entrusting so much within these texts, but even so, I will send our notes to Alan. After all, scientists are trained to find answers in unorthodox locations.”

“Will you be dropping them off tonight?”

“Tomorrow, but it will have to be by mail. I will be attending a luncheon tomorrow at 11:30 with a Mr. Thomas Edwards, who is a friend of Lady Agatha’s.”

“Oh, I will be attending the same function,” Basil said, looking pleased. “Mr. Edwards has been inquiring over the possibility of a commission. I believe he invited me solely to discuss the details.”

“How wonderful,” Dorian said with a smile. “What sort of work is it?”

“I do not yet know. I imagine it will all be sorted out tomorrow.”

The two men said their goodbyes, and Dorian readied their notes for the following morning. As soon as he woke, he sent Victor off to deliver the notes to Alan, and he readied himself for the day. As soon as he was dressed, he made his way across town to the estate of Thomas Edwards. The lad knew very little about him, other than the fact that he was well acquainted with Lady Agatha, of whom had taken to parading him around London like a pet.

When he arrived, he did not recognize a single face, and he hoped Basil would arrive soon, saving him from an afternoon of meaningless chatter. When Lady Agatha spotted him, she swooped over, cooing and tittering over him like a concerned mother. “Oh, there you are, my little drop of sunshine! Come along, you simply must meet Thomas.”

Dorian sighed, but let her drag him toward an imposing man with a stern brow and disapproving eyes, like a college professor seeking out the weakest in the class. “Ah, Mr. Gray,” he greeted, reaching out to shake his hand. “I have heard such wonderful things about you. Lady Agatha speaks a great deal about you. Every interaction seems to inevitably end with your name.”

“Ah, well. Lady Agatha tends to embellish my character a bit.” He sipped uncomfortably at his drink.

“I hope not,” he said with a cool smile. “Our good Lady has never been one to embellish.”

“Certainly not!” Lady Agatha agreed. “I have an eye for talent, you know. Embellishment would entail a lie, and I have never been known to lie.”

They chatted on for several minutes more, until Dorian excused himself to use the lavatory. He was so incredibly bored. He tiptoed lightly about, trying to avoid Lady Agatha as he waited for Basil. He hoped he would wrap up his business with Mr. Edwards quickly so the two of them could make their escape to Alan’s.

However, after nearly an hour, Basil still had not arrived, and Dorian was beginning to worry. He was never one to be anything other than punctual. He had circled the room a dozen times over, and still he had not appeared. Finally, he decided to make his way back toward Mr. Edwards, and saw that he was surrounded by a coterie of chuckling peers. “Oh, Dorian!” Lady Agatha cried out, waving him over. “There you are, my dear! We were beginning to worry about you.”

“Forgive me, Lady Agatha,” he apologized. “Ah, hello again, Mr. Edwards. Do forgive me for interrupting, but I was wondering if you have, by chance, come across Basil Hallward? By my count, he was to arrive nearly an hour ago, but I have not yet come across him.”

Suddenly, everyone around them went silent. Lady Agatha stared at the lad, appearing dumbfounded, and Mr. Edwards turned up his nose in disgust. “Basil Hallward? Why, young man, his invitation has been officially revoked. He is not welcome in this manor. In fact, I would imagine no manor of any self-respecting member of society would deign to welcome him.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, flinching at the man’s bitter tone. “I beg your pardon, but I do not understand. Basil Hallward has often proven himself to be a model citizen, and nothing short of the finest artist in London. Why has your impression of him suddenly turned so sour?”

Mr. Edwards stared at Dorian, and, suddenly, he realized everyone around him was giving him a strange look, eyes wide with surprise, disbelief, and, most horrifying of all, disgust. “Why, Mr. Gray,” he began. “The word is that the two of you are…rather close. I would have guessed you would have been one of the first to hear.”

Dorian’s body went cold. “Please forgive my ignorance, but I do not understand,” he said slowly. “Has something happened?”

“Why, it’s the talk of London,” he exclaimed, a cruel sneer twisting his face. “You are, of course, aware of the death of poor Matthew Boyle?”

Dorian nodded, and he continued. “You see, I have several friends among Scotland Yard, and they say, among his possessions, they found a journal.”

“Yes,” Dorian said carefully. “I believe I remember such a detail from yesterday’s paper.”

“Well, they are required to search such items, to rule out the possibility of suicide or homicide, but they found something much more sinister. He detailed the possibility of collaboration between himself and Mr. Hallward, a subject he wished to bring up at a party he had thrown several weeks ago. However, Hallward snubbed him, going on and on about how inferior he was an artist, and that how he would never deign to work with someone so far beneath. The way it was said, Hallward spent the rest of the evening being…uncharacteristically affectionate toward an unknown young man, some brunet, I believe. They were seen leaving together, and, well…” Mr. Edwards turned his head and scowled in disgust. “I will spare you the unseemly details, but it was noted that the young man was seen leaving Mr. Hallward’s estate the following morning.”

“It certainly is such a shame,” Lady Agatha said sadly. “Matthew was such a darling boy. To be treated in such a way, by someone so unbecoming, it is truly a disgrace.”

All at once, the horrid truth came crashing down on him, and he clenched his fists, feeling sick. “What a wicked tale,” he growled, startling the pair and several nearby guests with his ferocity. “I was at that party, and nothing of the sort occurred!”

“Young man,” Mr. Edwards chided, staring at the lad as if he were a particularly slow child. “I understand the man was your friend, but, pray tell, why would an upstanding fellow such as Matthew Boyle tell a lie within his own private journal? Bare in mind, no matter how well we may think we know someone, we only ever know what they want us to believe. In any case, we can certainly take no chances, especially with someone of his…inclinations.”

“I am so very sorry, my dear, sweet boy,” Lady Agatha cooed, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know you two were rather close. It is a shame you had to find out this way.” 

Without a word, Dorian whirled and stomped away from the pair, nearly running into a handful of guests, all of whom tittered and grumbled their disapproval. He knew his conduct would be frowned upon, but he could scarcely find it within himself to care. His mind spun with worry and rage. The cruel, wretched man. He must have seen Dorian leave the party with Basil, and in a fit of jealous rage, wrote the horrid lie in his journal. But for what purpose? How could he have known it would have been seen, unless his death had been a result of suicide? But no, he may not have known Matthew for long, but he did know that he was entirely too enamored with himself to even contemplate such a task. Damn it all, why hadn’t he been more careful? He was no stranger to London’s rumor mill, having frequently been the target himself, and someone as quietly eccentric as Basil would be easy fodder. Making a beeline for the exit, he tried to formulate some sort of plan. Perhaps he should go to him. Not to his estate, the risk was far too great, seeing as London already had its eyes on him. He could see it even now, the sideways glances and careful whispers. They could meet somewhere. Alan’s estate, perhaps. Together, the two of them could come up with a seemingly logical explanation to dispel the rumors.

Suddenly, he heard a voice call out to him. “Well, my boy, just where are you scurrying off to?”

The young man froze, his heart pounding so hard it nearly deafened him. Slowly, he turned to face Harry, who was smiling at him with all the ease of an old friend, which, for all he knew, they were. Giving what he hoped was a convincing smile, he carefully greeted, “Harry, I was unaware you would be attending this little get together. I thought you loathed intimate parties such as these.”

“On the contrary,” he disagreed, casting a glance around the room. “I find them fascinating. Everyone vying for attention, and no one truly receiving it. In any case, it’s interesting to see so many people acting entirely the same, as they boast about how utterly unique they are. Every single person in this room thinks they are the smartest person here, and every single one of them is wrong.”

Dorian nodded, his mind searching wildly for a means of escape. “Yes, well, I know how much you love to people watch. Do not allow me to interrupt. I was just on my way out.”

“At this hour?” Harry wondered, raising a brow. “I fear you are making a habit of leaving parties before they have truly begun.”

“Ah, yes.” He racked his brain for an excuse. “Perhaps you are right. As it turns out, I seem to have forgotten a previous engagement of mine, scheduled for roughly an hour from now, and I do not wish to be tardy.”

“My friend, you simply must make use of the term, ‘fashionably late’,” Harry said with a wry grin. “It gives one an aura of suspense and mystery. It leads people, especially women, longing for more.”

“Hmm, perhaps.” The lad hoped that the older man would not notice that he was slowly backing away. “However, this is not someone I wish to keep waiting. They deserve punctuality.”

Harry gave him a strange look, as if he were trying to figure something out, and Dorian decided that now was the time to take his leave. “Well then,” he said, turning away. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“It is a shame, isn’t it?” Harry suddenly asked. “Regarding poor Matthew Boyle.”

Dorian froze, a chill running up his spine. “What do you mean?” he inquired cautiously, turning back to face him.

“Why, Dorian, everyone’s talking about it. Such a tragic accident, it was. And one that was so easily avoidable.” Harry tilted his head in a strange, inquisitive manner. “What was it you once said? That you were Icarus, and that you were plummeting to the sea? I think, perhaps you misspoke. You are the sun. You have always been the sun. But Matthew, I believe he was Icarus. He flew much to close to you. Much too close, indeed.” He shook his head. “Is it any wonder he fell?”

Dorian felt cold, as if all the warmth of the room had suddenly been sucked away. “Harry, what have you done?”

Harry blinked innocently at the younger man. “My friend, I am unsure what you mean,” he stated in a sickeningly charming voice. Then, leaning forward until his lips grazed the lad’s ear, he whispered, “But you should remember, London is a large city, and even in one’s most vulnerable moments, in the darkest of nights, her eyes remain unblinking and omnipresent.”

Dorian could scarcely breathe. He stumbled backwards, and Harry reached out to steady the lad, worry filling his eyes. “You don’t look well, my friend,” he remarked. “Perhaps you should forget about this ‘prior engagement’ of yours and head on home. Allow me to walk you out.” Quick as a snake, he gripped Dorian’s arm and led him toward the exit. The lad tried to pull away, but Harry’s grip was like a vice, painful and inescapable. When they reached the front door, he finally let go, and Dorian rubbed at his sore arm in relief. The older man reached out to readjust the lad’s tie, and, as he did so, he spoke softly, barely loud enough for Dorian to hear. “My dear boy, for your own wellbeing, I would stay away from Basil Hallward if I were you. A man like that is poison to fellows such as ourselves.” He paused for a moment, staring the younger man in the eye before adding, “You know, the word is that he left Matthew’s party with a dark-haired fellow, but I believe Mr. Edwards misspoke. He was fairer than that. Dare I say, he may have been blond.”

Dorian regarded Harry with horror. He tried to think of something, anything to say, but his mind was blank.

Harry smiled and shrugged. “Ah well, it scarcely matters. The rumor mill is incessant. One way or another, it will find its way to the truth.” Before Dorian could react, Harry clasped him on the back and pushed him out the door. “Get to feeling better soon, my friend,” he called out after him. “I find these parties to be so dull without your charming presence.” With that, he shut the door in the lad’s face.

Dorian stood on the porch for several moments, flabbergasted by Harry’s threat. One thing was certain; Harry knew of his relationship with Basil, and he had now made it impossible for him to travel anywhere with him, to even visit his estate. Biting his lip, he scrambled to hail a cab, and as one began to slow and pull to the curb, Dorian came to a horrifying realization: Harry had let him off easy. He had come away unscathed this time, but without Basil in his presence at parties such as these, there would be no one to pull him out of the fog of Harry’s influence. Short of injuring himself, which was a drastic measure, and a difficult one to keep hidden, he was entirely at his mercy.

_Harry has me right where he wants me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a big boy, which is why this chapter took so long. future chapters shouldn't take nearly as long. as always, let me know what you think!


	7. A Change In Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry has our poor protagonists cornered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the huge hiatus, here's chapter seven! Let me know what you think!

As desperate as Dorian was to go directly to Basil’s estate, he instead headed home. It was too dangerous, especially now that he knew Harry was watching them, but that did not mean they could not meet somewhere, somewhere far from London’s prying eyes. As soon as he arrived home, he made a beeline to his room and a locked the door behind him. Taking a seat at his desk, he hastily began to write a letter.

_My Dear Friend,_

_London is alive with gossip, as you may be well aware. In times such as these, we must turn a blind eye to rumor and myth, and instead cast a gaze upon the science of reality. Find your comfort within this science, in all its calm rationale, and know that my heart is there with you._

_ Yours in eternity,_

_ D.G_

Dorian set down his pen and reread the letter, praying his meaning would come through. He rang for his footman and began to fold the letter into a plain, unaddressed envelope. Just then, there was a knock at his door, and he rose to answer it.

“You rang for me, sir?” Victor asked, awaiting his orders.

“I did,” Dorian answered. Handing him the envelope, he instructed, “See that this is immediately delivered to Mr. Basil Hallward’s estate. It is of the highest importance.”

The Frenchman nodded. “Yes, sir. I shall send it to the post office immediately.”

“No, Victor,” Dorian said firmly. “I need you to take this directly to Mr. Hallward’s estate. It must remain in no one’s hands but yours until you get there, and it must be placed in no one’s hands but Mr. Hallward’s when you arrive. Do you understand?”

The footman seemed put off by the lad’s abrasive tone, but he nodded and accepted the letter. Dorian followed him to the door and watched as he headed down the street to deliver the message. As soon as he was out of sight, Dorian grabbed his coat and headed out onto the sidewalk to hail a cab.

“Where you headed, son?” the cabbie asked as he pulled to the curb. Dorian gave him the address and leaned back into his seat as the cab jolted forward, staringly forlornly out the window. As they slowly made their way through London, his thoughts returned to Basil. He had not seen him since yesterday. Despite himself, he felt his face grow warm at the memory of what they had shared those two weeks ago, and he was thankful for the cool air that kept him grounded. No one had ever treated him with more kindness, and, as he remembered how gentle he had been with him, he felt his blood boil at the thought that London had even a miniscule look into their private life. Those moments between them belonged to himself and Basil alone, and Harry had had the utter audacity to steal it away and turn it into a scandal for all of London to gossip over. He could not fathom how he had found out, but it scarcely mattered. All that mattered was getting to Basil and figuring out how to fix this newfound mess they were in.

Slowly, the carriage began to pull over and roll to a stop. Dorian exited the cab, and, as he payed the driver, he worried for a moment that perhaps his host would not be home. He knocked hard on the door and took a step back. After several moments, Alan opened the door and regarded the young man with surprise. “Dorian. I was not expecting you today.”

“Yes, forgive me,” he apologized. “However, I would not have come by unannounced unless it was urgent.”

Alan stared at the young man for a few moments. Finally, he sighed and said, “Well, I had best put on some tea. Do come in. Mind your shoes.”

Dorian slipped off his shoes and made his way into the parlor. He took a seat in one of the armchairs and glanced nervously toward the front door.

“What is this all about?” Alan wondered as he placed a tray of biscuits on the coffee table. “Good lord, Dorian, you look as if you have seen a ghost.”

“I have seen something far worse than that,” the lad stated grimly. “I shall explain everything once Basil arrives, if he does.”

“Basil?” A knowing look crossed Alan’s face. “Ah, I see. I suppose it would not be very wise for the both of you to come here together.”

Dorian glanced at the man. “So you’ve heard, then.”

“Of course I have,” Alan sighed. “You know how London talks. One can not help but overhear the whispers.” He shot the young man a look before continuing. “Of course, the validity of such rumors is another matter entirely.”

“The validity of such rumors is of little consequence,” Dorian stated in a firm tone, his gaze returning to the front door. “The damage has been done. Basil has been ostracized from society. To be seen with him in public would mean-“ He swallowed hard, unable to say the words aloud. “Well, I imagine you know well enough what it would mean. Harry has outwitted us all.”

Alan gave the younger man a long, steady look. “If you truly believed that,” he said slowly, “then what are you doing here?”

To this, Dorian had no response, so he merely stood and went to the large bookshelf on the other side of the room. As he scanned the titles, he heard Alan sigh. “I’ll go check on the tea,” he said, and he left the room. While he was gone, the lad continued his inspection of Alan’s collection of books, hoping to calm his frayed nerves. Unsurprisingly, every book was related to one scientific method or another, a far cry from Dorian’s own collection at home. He hadn’t the patience to study something so seemingly convoluted, although, he supposed he could see why Alan would find the subject so fascinating. In a way, it was like the arts. It was about finding meaning in a chaotic world. That was something Dorian respected, and one of the reasons he had decided to trust him.

Roughly thirty minutes passed before there was a knock at the door, and the young man’s heart jumped. He longed to answer, but he knew it would not look good if he were the one welcoming Basil inside. He waited for Alan to answer the door while he stood there, trying to control the pounding of his heart.

“Dorian,” a low voice murmured, and he turned to see Basil in the doorway, staring at him with a heavy expression he could not quite decipher. Without a word, he strode toward the older man and pulled him close, breathing in his soothing scent, paint and jasmine, his favorite tea. Basil wrapped his arms around the lad and buried his face in his hair, saying nothing.

Behind them, Alan cleared his throat. “I will give you two a moment,” he said, quietly leaving the two men alone in the parlor.

After several moments, Dorian spoke. “I was afraid you would not understand the letter.”

“Darling, your meaning was plain as soon as you suggested I ‘find comfort in science’,” Basil assured the lad, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Where else but Alan’s estate would I enjoy such a luxury?”

“Please forgive me,” the younger man implored. “This is all my fault. I should have been more careful. I should have known he would be watching us…”

Basil pulled away enough to stare the Dorian in the eyes. “You musn’t blame yourself,” he said firmly. “Harry is a snake in the grass. He would have found something, anything, to ensure we were parted, especially in public. We were…merely unlucky.” He looked away sheepishly. “At least it was only me.”

“’Only you’”, the lad repeated bitterly. “Basil, if you heard what they were saying about you…” He shook his head, unable to speak past the burning in his throat.

“ I hardly care what the foolish elite think of me,” the older man insisted. “All they have are their petty rumors. Their words can not hurt me.” Basil sighed. “I only thank god you were not implicated as well.”

Dorian bit his lip, remembering Harry’s words at the luncheon. “That may not entirely be the case,” he admitted. “Harry insinuated that he was more than willing to implicate me as well if I continue to ignore him.”

Basil stared at the lad in horror. “My god,” he murmured. “Oh, Dorian, please forgive me. We never should have challenged him.”

Dorian took the man’s face in his hands and gazed at him steadily. “I have no regrets, my dear Basil,” he stated plainly. “If I could go back and live in that moment, I would immediately.”

Basil blushed in that endearing way of his, but said nothing. He looked terribly upset.

“Listen to me, my dearest,” Dorian continued, smoothing his hands down the front of the man’s jacket. “We can not allow ourselves to become discouraged. We simply need to figure something else out.”

“And what exactly would that be?” Alan chimed in, carrying a tea tray and setting it beside the biscuits on the coffee table. “Harry has whispered into the ear of everyone in London. The damage has already been done. He has trapped you to him” He sighed. “Unfortunately, it would appear he has backed us into a corner.”

“Then perhaps,” Dorian said after a moment’s pause, “we should face him directly.”

Basil and Alan regarded the young man with surprise. “What are you saying?” Basil asked. “Harry is much too powerful to face head on.”

Dorian began to pace, thinking hard. “Think about it,” he insisted. “Harry is a manipulative snake, concerned with furthering his own secret agenda, but the one truth that I am certain of is that he still regards us as friends, or at least something similar to friends. I think the only course of action left to us is appealing to his better nature.”

“His better nature?” Alan shook his head. “Dorian, he has no better nature. His very being is meant to create as much chaos and misery as possible. Alchemists thrive off of such emotions.”

Dorian nervously chewed at his lip. “He wants something from me. Certainly, he knows that, whatever it is, I will not give it over willingly, especially with his current behavior. Perhaps, if I could explain how deeply he is hurting me, hurting all of us, he may relent.”

“Darling,” Basil chimed in softly. “If that were the case, then why did he steal your soul away in the first place?”

“He wants something from me.” He stopped his pacing and stared beseechingly at the two men. “All of this, all the parties, even the business with poor Sybil Vane, they all feel like some sort of test. He twists me to see how I will react. He wants me for something. It is only a theory, mind you, but I think perhaps he tried his twisted experiments on Matthew Boyle as well. However, something went wrong. I saw Harry at the luncheon this morning, and he insinuated that Boyle had been Icarus, and that I was the sun. He ‘flew too close’ to me, Harry said.”

Basil looked pale. “Dorian, are you saying that it was Harry who killed Matthew Boyle?”

“He did not say as much with so many words, but I have no doubt. Basil, forgive me. I have kept a secret from you. At Boyle’s party these two weeks past, he made it explicitly clear that he desired me. Of course, I turned him down immediately. He proved much too egotistical and brutish to even consider as a friend. But Harry was so strangely captivated by him, he insisted I give him a chance, that I let him seduce me away. And I almost did. God help me, his poisonous words twisted my mind, and I almost stayed there with the both of them, but then I remembered you, and Alan, and the reason we were all there in the first place. I left then to find you, but Harry remained, for some time, at least. I know it sounds mad, but I believe that, whatever games Harry has been playing with me, he tried them on Matthew Boyle as well. Certainly, I had expected him to come looking for me the following day, but he stayed hidden away. Today was the first time I have come across him since then.”

“It is certainly within the realm of possibility,” Alan allowed. “At any rate, the accusations in his journal certainly prove to be suspicious. I thought so myself, when I first heard it. Tell me, Basil, you and Boyle were not particularly close, correct?”

“Certainly not,” Basil assured him. “We merely frequented the same circles. We saw each other often enough to be friendly, but we were by no means friends.”

“Indeed,” Alan mused. “In that case, it sounds suspiciously as though Harry, in what can only be interpreted as jealous rage, watched the two of you leave Boyle’s party together, and he went to whisper in the man’s ear, telling tales of backstabbing and homoeroticism. He had his fun with him, but, in the end, he was no replacement for you, Dorian. He was a dwindling flame to your blazing sun, and he wanted to make sure you knew it, that all of London knew it.”

Dorian clenched his fists. “Harry’s jealous rage is not my concern. I demand to find out what his end goal is. What does he hope to gain in the suffering he is inflicting upon me, upon all of us? What does he want that he was willing to kill a man for?”

“We can not hope to understand his mind,” Alan said gently. “It is an unfortunate thing, but Harry could have fixated on you for a number of reasons. However, it does not necessarily matter. The damage has been done, and, to the best of my knowledge, there is nothing we can do on our side, short of killing him, which, understandably, can only be allowed as a last resort.”

The trio were quiet for several minutes until, finally, Basil spoke. “Then we should run.”

“What?” Dorian stared at him, wide eyed. “Basil, I do not want to run. We should not have to run. London is our home.”

“What other choice do we have?” Basil glanced between his friends, looking almost frightened. “He has utterly destroyed my reputation, and he has made no secret that he is willing to do the same to you. What if he finds out Alan has been helping us? What sort of cruelty will he inflict upon him? If he was capable of finding out about us, it will not be long before he begins to wonder over our newfound interest in science.”

Alan stood firm. “I have no intention of leaving behind my books,” he said resolutely. “My entire life resides within my study.” He paused for a moment. “However, yes, I do see your point. Perhaps it is best for the two of you to leave. It would not be hard to concoct some excuse or another. Hopefully, in your absence, his obsession will subside, and the rumors will die down. I know of a town in Scotland, rather remote. You two will be able to disappear.”

“That is not a solution,” Dorian protested. “Running away will not help. We will merely live in fear, spending the rest of our days looking over our shoulders. Or you will, Basil, at any rate. I will stand by, watching you grow older and older as I stay ever the same, trapped in this statue of a body. No, I refuse to run away. That is all I have ever done. I have spent the last two years running from my problems, and look where it has gotten me. When I had heard that Sybil killed herself, I did nothing to make it right. I did not go to her mother, nor did I write to her brother. No, I merely shoved away my emotions, drowning in a sea of whiskey and flesh. The girl needed me, and I left. Now, what am I to do, leave all of London at his mercy, waiting for him to find some other naïve young man to take under his wing? Or am I to sit by in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, waiting for him to track me down and seduce me back to London? No, I will not hide myself away while he preys on some other hapless young man, hypnotized by his horrible charm and sickly sweet words. I can not be responsible for ruining another life. I have to settle this.”

It was quiet for a long time. Slowly, Basil reached out and placed a hand against the lads cheek. Startled, he realized he was crying, and he quickly wiped the tears away. Taking in a deep breath, he continued. “I refuse to run away from my problems again. I want to do better than that. I want to _be _better than that.”

“I know you feel as though I do not understand, Dorian,” Basil said earnestly. “But I do. Truly, I do. However, this is your life at stake. Harry has already proven himself to be a man without compassion, so appealing to his better nature feels like a futile endeavor. And, certainly, any physical altercation between us will be a fool’s errand, for if he was capable of killing Matthew Boyle, he will have no problem killing us. Killing you.” Tears appeared in his eyes. “Dorian, you are the greatest love of my life.”

The declaration was startling. Basil had scarcely allowed himself to embrace the lad, even in the privacy of their respective homes. And yet, here he stood, in full daylight and with Alan looking on in surprise, appearing for all the world like a guardian angel, standing firm in his mission to keep the lad safe and out of harm’s way.

Before Dorian could think of a response, Basil continued on. “Yes, it is true. It has been for some time now. I love you, and I can not let you run headlong into a battle you have no hope of winning, especially considering you would never allow me to accompany you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And so we are left with the only option that is left available to us. Running away.” He grasped the lad’s hands. “It will not make you a bad person. On God, I promise you that. You are not responsible for Harry. You are only responsible for yourself, and right now, you need to get yourself somewhere safe.”

Dorian gazed at the artist, and he wondered at how long it had taken him to realize that he was in love with him. He had never been more beautiful than he appeared in that moment, eyes stubbornly passionate and bright, unwavering in his conviction, even as his tears threatened to spill over. He knew that they could stand here for hours, and still he would not break. He pulled his hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Oh, Basil,” he murmured, heart breaking at what he was about to say. “My dearest love. I know you only mean to protect me. I can not say I blame you. I would say much of the same, if our roles were reversed. I have no other choice, do I? Yes, we should run away together.”

Relief flashed across Basil’s face, and he drew the lad close. “I am sorry. I know it is not what you want, but it is the safest alternative. This time next week, we will be far away from here.”

Dorian buried his face in his shoulder and said nothing, swallowing hard past the painful lump in his throat.

The plans were made, and the date was set. They would be off tomorrow. It was a rush, certainly, but they had no time to waste. They decided to leave separately, and at varying times, so as not to raise suspicions. A cab would be waiting for them outside the city, which would then take them to a train station in a nearby town. From there, they were off to the nondescript village tucked neatly away in upper Scotland. Alan had a friend there, and he was certain that they would be able to find accommodations for the foreseeable future.

Basil did not sleep at all that night. Instead, he went to work packing, hoping it would ease his restless mind. He tried to decide what was worth bringing and what would have to stay behind. His heart ached at the sight of his easel and wide array of canvases, some still unfinished, but he reasoned he could always buy more. They were worth little in regards to Dorian’s safety, as well as his own. By the time dawn broke, he was ready, and he went to awaken Parker.

“Oh, good morning, sir,” he greeted groggily, still in his sleepwear. “Did you require something?”

“No, Parker. I only came to tell you that I am leaving. This time tonight, I will be far away from here.”

Parker’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see,” he murmured. “Well, then. When shall I count on your return?”

Basil decided to be blunt. “I will not return. At least, not for a very long time. I gather, this will be the last time we shall ever see each other.”

Parker blinked, looking shocked. “I-what? But sir, you can not just leave.”

Basil sighed. He had always liked Parker, and he did not relish the idea of leaving him behind. “I must, Parker. I take no pleasure in the fact, but it must be done. I am only sorry it is on such short notice.”

“Sir.” Parker took a step a forward. “You must not let these rumors get the better of you. You know how London loves to gossip. In a few months, their talk will die down, and their gaze will turn elsewhere.”

Basil was surprised. Since the rumors had first emerged, neither he nor Parker had breathed a word about it in the house. He had almost assumed the servant did not even know about it. “Oh, Parker. You know as well as I do that that is not true. Once London has her teeth in something, she scarcely lets go.” He shook his head. “It matters not. My time in the city has come to an end. I only came to tell you that I am leaving my estate to you.”

“You what?” Parker looked dumbfounded. “Sir, that is nonsense. Surely, you can not be serious.”

“Indeed I am. Worry not. I have withdrawn a small fortune from within my inheritance that will ensure my continued well-being, but I will leave the rest to you. I have no need of it any longer.”

Parker shook his head hard, as if trying to awaken himself from a dream. “Please, sir. I can not accept such generosity.”

“Parker.” Basil set his suitcases by his feet and placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Listen to me. I have no family, no brothers or sisters, not even some far off cousin to call my own. You are the closest thing I have to family. Even if you do not see it that way, I do. I have left all the necessary documents in the parlor for you to do with what you wish.” He stared at him beseechingly. “Please, Parker. I may very well never see you again. Allow me to do this for you.”

Parker blinked once more, and he saw there were tears in his eyes. “Sir-“

“Basil. Please.”

“Basil.” Parker cleared his throat, unused to his employer’s name on his lips. “Oh, Basil. What can I say? You have given me everything and more. Working for you has been the greatest honor of my life.”

Tears filled the artist’s eyes, and he embraced the man hard. “So long, my friend. Be well.”

He left soon after that, afraid that if he lingered for too much longer, he would begin to lose his nerve. Parker would be well off in his absence, and that was what mattered. He took a carriage through town until he was just outside the city, and he walked the remainder of the way until he reached the small inn where they would be meeting. He found Alan sitting inside, nursing what appeared to be wine. “Drinking?” he wondered, taking a seat across from him. “At this hour?”

“Just the one,” Alan assured. “It heightens my senses. I need every part of myself to be alert.”

“Indeed.” Basil looked around nervously. “Where is Dorian? He should be here by now.”

“Yes, he sent word shortly before I left this morning. He has some loose ends he needs to tie up with Victor. He gave us leave to go ahead to the train station, and he will meet us there.”

Basil frowned. “Oh, I see,” he muttered, biting nervously at his nails. “What a mess. We should have left together. I will be sick with worry until I see him before me, safe and out of harm’s way.”

“It was safer for us all to leave separately,” Alan insisted. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached to grab his friend’s hand. “Be easy. Everything is happening the way it was meant to.”

Basil sighed and squeezed his hand. “May I partake?” he asked, nodding toward the cup. “I will need all the courage I am capable of receiving.”

Alan nodded, and Basil took a long sip of wine. Eventually, the time came to head to the station. It was nearly empty when they arrived, and Basil felt himself growing increasingly nervous. “I don’t understand,” he murmured, looking around the empty platform. “He should be here by now.”

“Perhaps he is having trouble with Victor?” Alan offered. However, he looked less than convinced.

“You folks looking for someone?” a voice called out. The pair looked up to see the ticket seller waving them down.

“Indeed we are.” Basil went hastily to the man, with Alan right on his heels. “There should be a young man here waiting for us. A blonde fellow, and tall, with blue eyes.”

The ticket seller shook his head. “You two are the only passengers I’ve seen all morning. Did have a Frenchman come by, though. Told me to give this to a Basil Hallward and Alan Campbell.” He held out a neatly folded letter.

“Victor,” Alan guessed as Basil reached for the letter. “He hasn’t sent him on his way yet? What is taking him so long?”

Basil scanned through the letter, his heart sinking with every word. “Some business has come up,” he informed him. “He now tells us he will meet us at the village.”

Alan furrowed his brow. “What? No, that can not be right. We were meant to arrive together. My friend in the village, I told her we would all arrive at precisely noon, and I would make the introductions. What on Earth is he doing that he can not join us now?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Basil clenched his fist, crumbling the letter. “He is trying to get us as far away as possible. He intends to face Harry, and face him alone.”


	8. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian takes matters into his own hands.

Dorian sat quietly on his sofa, awaiting the arrival of the man who had once been his friend. It hurt him, lying as he had, but this mess was between himself and Harry alone, and he did not want his friends to become involved anymore than they already were. The possibility of a physical altercation felt unlikely, but even so, he would prefer them to be as far away as possible. It was foolhardy, certainly, but even if they did manage to slip away unnoticed into Scotland, he owed it to his friends, to Sybil Vane, and to himself to ensure that Harry wouldn’t set his cruel gaze upon some other hapless young man.

As time wore steadily on, and his nerves grew increasingly frazzled, he thought of Basil, the man whom he loved more than anything in the world. He knew that, wherever he was now, he was probably growing anxious over the lad’s continued absence, but he hoped he had bought himself just enough time to try to fix the horrible situation they were in. His thoughts then turned to Alan, soft-spoken and quick witted, who had decided to help him without a thought. Be it scientific fascination or basic human compassion, he had been a wonderful friend to the two men. No matter what, Dorian had to remain the shield between his friends and Harry.

There was a knock at the door, and he knew the time had come. After his errand at the train station, he had instructed Victor to stay away until tomorrow to ensure he would not be caught in the crossfire of their confrontation. Taking a deep breath, he went to the front door, and there was Harry, smiling pleasantly. “Good morning, my friend.”

“Good morning,” Dorian greeted, careful to keep his expression neutral, and his voice devoid of emotion. No matter what, he had to keep the conversation focused on himself, and not on Basil, or, god forbid, Alan. “Do come in. I thank you for coming by on such short notice.”

“I would not extend such punctuality to just anyone,” Harry said, hanging his coat on the coatrack. “And at any rate, I can not help but feel a bit curious as to what this meeting of yours entails.”

“It is not a meeting,” Dorian objected as he led the way into that parlor. “It is merely a discussion between friends.”

Harry raise a brow as he took a seat by the hearth. “Is it now? Why, then, do you appear so painstakingly formal? You have not even set out any tea.”

Dorian bit his lip nervously as he took a seat across from the man. “I am as I always am,” he assured him, unconvincingly.

“So I have noticed,” Harry murmured. Before Dorian could comment, he leaned forward in his seat and said, “Do not insult my intelligence, dear boy. I know what this is really about.”

“Do you?” Dorian wondered, careful not let his voice give anything away. “Well, then. Please enlighten me.”

“Basil Hallward.”

Dorian’s eyes widened in surprise. That was not the answer he had been expecting. “I…excuse me?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, come now, Dorian. Any fool with eyes can see the two of you have grown intimate.” He shook his head. “I should have seen this coming. I knew how obsessed he was with you. He told me as much, the very first day I met you.”

Dorian blinked. His thoughts raced in a panic, and he tried to think of something to say that would absolve Basil from any more blame. “No, Harry. This is not about Basil. This is about you.”

“Is it, now?” Harry leaned back in his seat, looking amused. “Pray tell, what about me?”

Dorian swallowed nervously. He had rehearsed everything in his head for hours, and yet he was drawing a blank. Finally, he said simply, “I do not like the person you have become, nor the person you have attempted to turn me into. You were once a wonderful friend, but you have turned into someone that I do not know, someone that I do not wish to know. It pains me to say it, but this shall be the last time I will speak to you. From this day forward, I want you out of my life.”

Harry stared at the lad for several moments. Then, he burst into laughter.

Dorian clenched his fists at his side, willing himself to remain calm, to not allow Harry to get a rise out of him. “This is hardly a laughing matter,” he said.

“Of course it is,” Harry disagreed. He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked the lad over. “ I have absolutely no interest in letting a fascinating creature such as yourself slipping out of my grasp.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Dorian stated. “My mind is made up.”

“Is it?” Harry sighed. “I wonder, did you make it up yourself, or did you have help? I told myself I would hold my tongue, but I can not remain silent. The very first day we met, before I joined you in the parlor, Basil and I were having a chat in the garden. Even then, he expressed a desire to keep you to himself. He went on and on about how wonderful you were, and when I myself expressed an interest in meeting you, he told me he would not allow it. He did not want me to ‘spoil’ you, so he said. But, my dear boy, it would appear that it is he who is doing the spoiling. He has become quite a poisonous influence. Do you not see how he attempts to isolate you from others, from me? Even now, people are beginning to talk. No matter how sneaky the two of you think you are, London sees you together, and they are beginning to get ideas in their heads.” Harry raised a brow. “Very strange ideas, indeed. They know the kind of person Basil is, and, my boy, a beauty such as yourself can not be overlooked.”

Dorian clenched his fists. Willing himself to remain cool and unaffected, he slowly said, “As I said, we are not discussing Basil at present. We are discussing you. And I am telling you that I do not wish to associate with you any longer.”

Harry stared at the lad for a moment. Then, slowly, he stood, going to stand beside him.

“I will thank you to stay where you are,” Dorian said firmly, careful to keep his eyes trained forward as his heart began to pound.

“What is this, Dorian?” Harry wondered, looking almost sad. “Can you truly look me in the eye and tell me that I do not have your best interests in mind? You are my dearest and closest friend. I have never known myself so well as I know myself with you. And, I suspect, you feel the same way. You are freer than I have ever known you to be.”

Dorian began to tremble as that horrid fog slowly but surely began to slip into his mind. “No.”

“Dorian,” Harry said firmly. “Look at me.”

Dorian clenched his fists hard, trying to think. “Harry, go back to your seat.”

“Look at me.” Harry gripped the lad’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eye.

Dorian felt his body go limp, and Harry pulled him close. His cheek pressed against his chest, he could hear his heartbeat, slow and steady, and he sighed, melting into his touch. He felt weightless, as if he would fly away if Harry let go.

“Now, listen Dorian,” Harry said softly, stroking the lad’s hair. “You are so dear to me. It pains me to say it, but Basil Hallward has grown jealous of our bond. He is trying to turn you away from me, but you are mine. I chose you that day, in his studio. Did you know that? You were practically glowing, and I knew that I had to have you in my life. You were summertime given form. My dear boy, you were perfect.”

“I…was perfect?”

“So perfect.” He pressed his lips to his temple. “It hurts me deeply, knowing that Basil Hallward would seduce you away from me, when I have only ever wanted what is best for you.”

“It…hurts?” Something about that word stirred at Dorian’s memory, but it was gone like a flash of lightning.

“Yes, it hurts so much.” Harry pulled back a bit and cradled the lad’s face in his hands, gazing at him lovingly. “And Dorian, you do not want me to hurt, do you?”

Hurt. His memory stirred again. What was it about pain? It had something to do with Harry, but he could not remember why.

“I will never hurt you, Dorian,” Harry promised, tracing his thumbs over the lad’s cheekbones. “Now, you must promise me, you will never open yourself to that foul man again. He does not have your best interests at heart.”

Harry’s nails dug into his skin, and all at once Dorian remembered. There, on the coffee table, sat a plain silver letter-opener, and he grabbed it. Steeling himself, he plunged the metal into his leg.

Harry jumped back, startled. “Dorian! What in god’s name are you doing?”

Dorian groaned in pain as his leg throbbed, but the fog in his brain had dissipated completely. He was free. “Harry,” he growled. “Sit down.”

Harry’s eyes softened. “Now, Dorian-“

“Enough of your twisted words!” Dorian snapped. “The fog in my mind has cleared, and your influence over me is gone.” He stood, albeit shakily. “You can not control me. Not anymore. I am banishing you from my home, and from my life.”

Slowly, Harry’s cool façade began to crumble, and his eyes narrowed. “Well, aren’t you a clever boy,” he said with a scowl. “I have to say, I do not care for your tone. I am quiet content where I am, thank you.” He eyed the letter-opener, still clenched in the lad’s fist. “That was quite a trick, although I suspect it does not feel very good. Allow me to mend your leg for you.”

“No. I will thank you not to touch me. In fact, if any part of you still feels compassion, you will stay away from me.”

“Why?” Harry wondered. “So you can go back to a stifling, rigid life? So that you can be as society wants you to be, painfully ordinary, playing the part of a pure, chaste, angelic boy? A suffocating disguise, certainly. I know what you truly are.”

“And just what am I, Harry?”

He smiled pleasantly. “A flawed, fragile human being, capable of being so much more,” he answered. “You were a sheltered noble boy with no experiences under your belt. You tried to let the confines of society shape you into a moral, upstanding young man, but you and I both know the truth. You have urges, just like everyone else. You would spend the rest of your life trying to push them down, but now they flow free. You, my friend, are free. That is something that needs to be celebrated.”

Dorian regarded the man with a growing sense of horror. Harry had never truly been his friend, and the truth of it hit him like a slap in the face. He had been used, like a lab rat to a scientist. Everything that they had shared had been nothing more than a grand experiment of the human mind. “My god,” he whispered. “Basil was right about you.”

“Basil,” Harry drawled, uttering his name like a curse. “The foolish man. I assure you, Dorian, you would be better off staying away from him. You are worth so much than anything he could possibly offer you.”

“Why?” he asked, quickly losing his patience. “So you can keep me all to yourself? So you can whisper your dirty words and watch me-“ He broke off and took a deep breath. “I am my own person, not a subject in one of your horrid experiments. Basil has never made me feel like anything other than wholly myself, something I have not experienced in nearly two years. But you, you made me believe I was healing after…after I broke Sybil’s heart.” Tears pricked at his eyes, but he continued. “But I was not healing, Harry. I was dying. Every day I died a little bit more, until I was a ghost of myself. I was drowning, and you just sat by and let me! I needed a life preserver, but you handed me boulders and told me they would work just as well!” He was shouting now, and he forced himself to stop, wiping angrily at the tears that were streaming down his face.

Harry stared at the lad in something like wonder. He went toward him and, slowly, reached up to cup his cheek. “You are practically glowing,” he murmured. “Just look at you, overflowing with rage. Just imagine who you could be if you let it all free.”

Furious, Dorian shoved him away. “You’re not listening to me!”

“Oh, I’m listening,” Harry said, watching him closely. “I’m listening now more than ever. You are perfect, more perfect than I ever could have imagined.” He took another step toward the lad. “Tell me, Dorian, have you ever imagined becoming a god?”

All at once, it became clear that Harry was well and truly mad. He began to worry that it had been a mistake to invite him here, to try to reason with him. This was clearly a man without reason. “What are you saying?” he asked, backing away slowly.

Harry followed him as he said, “Imagine it, Dorian. The two of us being the silent watchers of humanity, but instead of passing judgement, we encourage the urges people try to hide from themselves. We will be Dionysus and Apollo, the gods of revelry and pleasure, of music and song. Humanity will finally be as they were meant to be.”

He had Dorian backed into a corner now. Horrified, he looked around for somewhere, anywhere to run, but he was trapped.

Harry reached out to cradle the lad’s face, his expression one of overwhelming tenderness. “You are better than all of them,” he said softly. “This is what you deserve. This is what you were meant to be.”

Dorian swallowed nervously. “Harry,” he whispered. “Please let me go.”

“Just imagine it,” he said again, as if he did not hear him. “I can give it to you. I can give you all that and more.”

“Harry,” Dorian repeated, this time with more force. “Let me go.”

Harry stared at the lad for a moment. Finally, his hands dropped to his side, and he took a step back. “Do not let that foolish artist make you weak,” he said. “You are worth so much more than this mortal world has to offer.”

Dorian stumbled away, putting as much distance between them as he could. “Listen to me very carefully,” he ordered. “You and I are nothing alike. Whatever dark magic you have used on me was in vain. Remove it at once.”

Harry tilted his head. “You’re asking me to take away my gift of eternal youth and beauty? You would give up what humanity has spent a millennia trying to obtain? My boy, be serious.”

Dorian was at a loss. Being forceful had not worked, and neither had his calm rationale. With no options left, he began to beg. “Please understand me, Harry. I did not choose this. You did not allow me the option to choose. The life I had before was the only life I wanted. It was simple and good. I am begging you, please return my life to me.”

“You would spend your days wasting away into a withered mass of nothing? With him? I have given you eternity, and you would throw it away for a handful of years of mediocrity? You insult me.”

“It was not my intention,” Dorian promised, wracking his brain for something to say that would make Harry understand. “I just…I want to be a good person, and I can not if I remain as I am now.”

“Why?” Harry demanded. “What does being a good person amount to? It will only give you a lifetime of worry and regret.” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Do not take me for a fool, my boy. This is not about me, or you misplaced desire to be good. I have known you for a long time, and you have no care for morals. This is about your pathetic affair with Basil Hallward, the king of morality. I would expect no less. The man has never allowed himself even the slightest pleasure in life.” Harry raised a brow. “Until now, it would seem. Tell me, did he even know what he was doing, or did you two stumble about like schoolboys, trying to figure out what goes where?”

Dorian’s face burned with fury. “I knew it,” he growled. “You whispered into Matthew Boyle’s ear, just as you have whispered into mine. You made him write those terrible rumors about Basil.”

“The word ‘rumor’ implies there is no validity to such gossip. I, however know the truth. The truth, of course, being that you are fucking that atrocious artist behind my back.”

Dorian stared at the man he had once called his friend. “Get out,” he said softly.

Harry’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

“Get out of my house.” Dorian strode up to the man until they were nose to nose. “I want you out of my house, and out of my life. Right now.”

Harry studied Dorian closely, as if trying to decide something. “The book,” he said suddenly. “Give it to me.”

“Book?” Dorian took a step back, confused. “What book?”

“The yellow book,” Harry explained. “You know the one. I will leave, but give me back my book.”

“Fine,” Dorian said. “I will be glad to be rid of it.” He stomped off to his room, digging through his bookcase until he found it, the yellow cover worn and faded. Although it had proven to be an enlightening read, he had seen enough of Harry’s mind to last him a lifetime, and he held it in his hands like a diseased animal. “Here’s your precious book,” he called as he headed back toward the parlor. “Now, take it and go.”

However, when he returned to the parlor, Harry was nowhere to be seen. Setting the book on the coffee table, he frowned as a great nervousness formed in the pit of his stomach. “Harry?” he called. “Where have you gone?”

The ceiling creaked above him, and the lad went cold. Harry had snuck upstairs, where the portrait was hidden away. Willing himself to remain calm, he headed upstairs. _You are in sole possession of the key,_ he silently reassured himself. _There is no possible way he can get into the store room. _

When he finally reached the top of the staircase, however, he froze in horror. The door to the store room was wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the climax, my friends! Let me know what you think!


	9. Pictures And Novels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a duel to the death, and the winner gets Dorian's soul.

“Is that you I hear, old boy?” Harry’s voice rang out from within the store room. “Please come in. I am very much looking forward to continuing our conversation.”

Heart pounding, Dorian stepped inside and saw that Harry, eyes wide, was gazing studiously upon the portrait, its wretched flaws exposed for all the world to see. “Forgive me, my friend,” Harry said without looking away. “I seem to have left the door open. Would you mind closing it for me?”

Dorian was frozen to his spot. “What do you think you are doing?” he finally croaked out.

Finally, Harry met Dorian’s gaze, appearing as if he had come across a particularly engrossing novel. “The door, Dorian,” he repeated. “I imagine you wouldn’t want anyone stumbling in here to see…this.”

Dorian swallowed hard around the lump in his throat as he turned to close the door. “How did you get in here?” he demanded. “The door was locked.”

Harry laughed. “My dear boy, do I appear as someone who is rendered helpless by a mere lock? You may as well have left the door open for me.” He took a step toward the portrait, looking fascinated as he examined it closer. “I have to say, I am rather surprised. So much corruption in so little time. Why, it has scarcely been two years, and yet the portrait is unrecognizable. You, Dorian Gray, are a special breed.”

Rage boiled in Dorians’s veins as he growled, “You ruined me. Everything that I am now is because you twisted me into your image. All of this misery and strife, all of the people I have hurt, it is your fault.” He could feel tears return to his eyes as he said, “Sybil Vane would still be alive if I had never had the misfortune of meeting you.”

“Oh, her again.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Really, Dorian, you have to move on. She was nothing more than an infatuated child. You both were.”

Dorian clenched his fists. “Don’t you dare speak of her in such a way!” he demanded. “It is your fault she is dead! You are the one who twisted my mind into something it was not.”

Harry frowned, as if hurt. “My friend, you wound me. Whatever you may think of me, I am certainly no controller of the mind. Yes, I have whispered an idea or two into your head, but it was up to you to follow through.”

“I won’t have you lie to me!” Dorian snapped. “Not anymore, and certainly not in my own home. You have casted a sinister spell upon my soul.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “I have casted a spell, but not upon your soul. I can assure you that none of my gentle prodding would have swayed you if you had not wanted it to.” Harry sighed and shook his head, looking disappointed. “You simply must give yourself some more credit. A skilled driver is worth nothing without a functioning carriage.”

Dorian’s knuckles turned white as he seethed. He desperately wanted to hit the man, but he stood firm as he said, “Enough of your faux intellectual nonsense. I have left your book on the coffee table downstairs. Take it and go.”

Slowly, like a dam about to burst, Harry’s cool façade began to crumble, and Dorian could see the jealous fury that lurked beneath the surface. “I’m beginning to lose my patience with you, boy,” he said softly, his voice rumbling like thunder. “How can you not understand the rare gift I have given you? I chose you that day, Dorian. I saw so much potential in you. Dare I say, I saw myself in you. I was like you once, young and curious, eager to experience everything the world has to offer. We are very much alike, you and I.”

Dorian curled his lip in disgust. “I am nothing like you,” he growled.

“You are more like me that you want to admit,” Harry insisted, taking a step toward the lad. “Certainly more so than that foolish artist. Your attraction to him begins and ends with his idealization of you. You think because he fucks you and calls you pretty that he is in love with you? He does not even know you. Not like I do.”

Dorian strode toward the older man until they were nose to nose. Slowly, quietly, he said, “Take your goddamn book, and get the hell out of my house, you demon.”

Harry regarded the lad for a moment, then turned his back and strode toward the portrait. In one quick motion, he slashed his nails across the hideous face.

Dorian cried out and stumbled backwards, his hands flying to his face. When he pulled them away, they were wet, and his whole face stung as if he had been cut. Fast as lightning, Harry turned and grabbed the lad by the throat. “I will not be cast aside like horse shit,” he growled, fingers digging into the lad’s skin. “You will rebuff that foolish artist and return to me. Only to me. Understood?”

The heavy fog returned to Dorian’s mind, disorienting him. Yes, he belonged to Harry…didn’t he? He was his friend. He made him a better, more interesting person. But then, why was he hurting him? Why did he appear so angry? Almost without meaning to, he thought of Basil and Alan, the two people in the world who meant more to him than anything. They were his friends, his true friends. They would never do anything to hurt him.

Dorian swept out a leg, knocking himself and Harry to the floor. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet and darted out the door. _The dagger_, he thought wildly as he ran downstairs. It lay hidden in its box under his bed. Surely he would reach it in time.

“Dorian!” He heard Harry call out. “This conversation isn’t over. There is still so much left to discuss.”

Dorian slammed his bedroom door shut and flipped the lock. Quickly, he fell to his knees and reached wildly under his bed for the box.

Suddenly, there was a gentle tap at the door. “Open the door, dear boy,” Harry purred. “I am coming in one way or another, but I see no reason why we can not remain civil.”

Finally, Dorian found the box and pulled the dagger free. Keeping it hidden behind his back, he called out, “I won’t tell you again. Leave my house now, or else I will ring the police.”

Harry laughed at this. “Oh, yes, have Victor ring the police,” he sneered. “But wait, you’ve sent him away, haven’t you? I don’t imagine he will be returning any time soon.”

Dorian backed away slowly, headed toward the window. As he fumbled for the latch, he said, “It is over, Harry. I’m rejecting you.” He turned to push open the window.

“I think you will find,” Harry whispered, just behind Dorian’s shoulder, “that it is not over until I say so.” He grabbed the lad by the back of his shirt and threw him backwards. As his head banged against the floor, the dagger flew from his hand and clattered across the floor. Desperately, he reached out for it, and cried out in pain as Harry dug his heel into his arm.

“Well, well. What might this be?” Harry bent down to pick up the dagger. Wrinkling his nose, he held it between his thumb and index finger, as if it were a dead mouse. “What a clever little dagger this is. I have to say, I’m rather curious as to where you acquired such an item.”

“Go to hell,” Dorian groaned as he struggled to sit up.

Harry shoved his other foot into the young man’s chest, pinning him to the floor. “It is certainly curious,” he continued as the lad struggled and gasped. “After all, it is such a rare commodity. I can only assume it was gifted to you, and I would very much like to know by whom.”

Dorian tried fruitlessly to remove Harry’s foot from his chest, but it was nearly impossible with only one free arm. “Get off of me, Harry,” he growled. “I acquired it myself.”

Harry tilted his head, studying the lad closely. “You know,” he said. “One can not help but notice how fascinated you are with science as of late. All those strange books you have been ordering. Why, word has it you have even been seen leaving Alan Campbell’s residence at all days of the week. Am I correct in assuming the two of you have become friends?”

Dorian went cold. “No!” he cried. “Harry, please. He is innocent!”

“Alan gave you the dagger,” Harry deduced. “How surprising. It would seem there is much more to him than I realized. Well then, I suppose I should wrap things up here. It would appear I need to pay Alan a visit.”

“No!” Dorian shoved desperately at Harry’s leg. In one fluid motion, Harry threw the dagger across the room, where it landed with a clatter under his desk, far from where Dorian could hope to reach it. Falling to his knees, he wrapped his hands around the lad’s throat and said, almost sadly, “Poor boy. I was so excited to see what sort of path you would take. I never expected you to turn from me.” He shook his head and sighed. “To think, you’ve turned your back on eternal life, freedom from the prison of morals and empathy, and for what? That pathetic, infatuated artist? You foolish boy.”

Dorian gasped as he clawed at the man’s hands around his throat, but it was no use. Harry’s grip was like a vice. As his vision began to blur and darken, he prayed to whatever god was listening that Basil and Alan had gone ahead without him, that they would be long gone before Harry could cast his murderous gaze upon them.

Just then, there was a strange sound, like paper being torn, and Harry cried out in pain. The grip on his neck loosened some, and the lad summoned the last of his strength to push the vile man away. He lay there, gasping for breath as his mind swirled incoherently. What had happened? Where was Harry? He rolled onto his stomach and searched wildly. There, nearby, Harry was curled on his side, his arms wrapped around his abdomen as if in unbearable pain.

“Dorian!” he heard a voice call out from somewhere within the house. “Where are you? Are you alright?”

“Basil!” Dorian tried to cry out, but his voice was hoarse, and he could not get out more than a ghastly croak. He coughed hard and pulled himself to his knees, panting hard. As quick as he could, he stumbled out of the room and down the hall toward the parlor.

There, in the doorway, stood Basil and Alan. Alan held what appeared to be one of Dorian’s old umbrellas, undoubtedly swiped from its container by the coatrack, and he held it in his fists like a club. Beside him, Basil clutched the yellow book close to his chest, a handful of pages clenched in his fist. “Dorian!” Basil gasped at the sight of his love, coughing and panting hard. “Alan, go to him, but have care. That monster undoubtedly hovers nearby.”

“The monster hovers beside us all,” Harry called from within the bedroom. Dorian looked back, and saw that, despite his apparent agony, he wore a cruel smile. “That’s my book, you thieving bastard. Give it to me.”

Basil tore out another handful of pages, and Harry howled like a dying creature. “Be silent, you horrid creature,” Basil demanded, just as Alan finally reached Dorian where he had fallen to his knees. Helping the lad to his feet, the pair slowly made their way back to Basil by the entryway.

“You two should not have come here,” Dorian protested weakly. “I told you to run.”

“My love, we did run,” Basil said, eyeing the corridor where he knew Harry was hidden. “We ran all the way here. We knew you could not face Harry alone. My love, please don’t look like that. We could not leave without you. It simply was not an option. But when we arrived, you were nowhere to be found. That is when I happened upon this.” He nodded toward the book before continuing. “A thought occurred to me then. Harry has spent all this time trying to shape you in his own image. What better way to do that than with this book? If he held it as reverently as you said, I assumed that could only mean one thing: That it is the very same book that corrupted him.”

“Goodness, it would appear Sherlock Holmes has a bit of competition,” Harry sneered as he emerged from the corridor. “You weak, pathetic creatures, ruled by your arbitrary senses of right and wrong. My life is one of splendid freedom, something you lot can not even begin to imagine! I offered Dorian the world, and he threw it away for what? An antisocial scientist who speaks to no one and has nothing except his beakers and test tubes.” He turned his hateful gaze to Basil. “Not to mention the homosexual shut in, ostracized from society, left with no one and nothing except for his pretty little slut.” Finally, he casted his hateful gaze to Dorian “You stupid child,” he spat. “You are only playing at being a man. This world was ripe and ready for your consumption, and you threw it away to be the plaything of humanity’s lone morality watchdog. You are a whore to the lowest this world has to offer!”

Basil bristled, and Alan’s knuckles turned white around the umbrella’s handle, looking ready to knock Harry’s head clean off. Silently, Dorian placed a gentle hand on his lover’s shoulder, and he took a step out of Alan’s steadying arms. Locking a level gaze on Harry where he lay slumped against the wall, he said, “There is only one fool here today, Harry, and it is yourself. You think yourself above others because you don’t allow yourself to feel compassion, but that is what makes us human. The lack of love in your heart is what has twisted you into the horrid creature you are now.”

Harry merely laughed. He lay there, cackling like a maniac as the trio stared on in growing horror. “He’s gone mad,” Alan whispered fearfully.

“Come, my love,” Basil said, reaching for Dorian. “We need to get as far away from here as possible.”

“What, leaving so soon?” Harry chimed in. “There’s still so much left to discuss.”

“No,” Dorian said firmly. “You have said more than enough, and now we are taking our leave. It’s over, Harry. You’ve lost.”

“Tell me, my boy. Do I look like someone who loses?”

“You look like a broken creature,” the lad insisted, backing away slowly with the others toward the front door.

“Oh, my darling Dorian,” Harry cooed. “You above all others should know that looks can be deceiving.” Without another word, Harry began to change. Gone was the broken, huddled man, and in his place was a barn owl, abnormally large, and wings flapping hard. With a single screech, it launched itself at Basil, slashing at his face with its massive talons.

Basil cried out and fell backwards as Dorian gave a shout of horror. Alan swung at the creature with his umbrella, but it merely knocked it away with a flourish of its wing. With Basil writhing on the floor, the monster turned its attention to Alan and launched itself at him.

“No!” Dorian cried, and rushed to block its path. The creature screeched and head-butted him hard, causing the lad to crumple to the floor in a heap, his head throbbing in searing pain.

“Dorian!” Alan shouted, shortly before he was knocked to the ground by the monster. Just then, Basil stood, blood pouring down his face, and he threw himself on the owl.

“Leave him alone, you monster!” He shouted fiercely. In response, the owl howled and slashed at Basil’s arm.

As the fighting continued, Dorian lay in a broken heap, head pounding. He needed to stand. He needed to help Alan and Basil. However, his legs would not obey him, and the world spun every time he tried to lift his head. As he heard his friend cry out in pain, he felt tears begin to prick at his eyes. He needed to do something, and he needed to do it now.

Just then, his eye caught the glimmer of something down the hall, and his breath hitched. It was the dagger. Groaning, he flipped onto his stomach and crawled toward his bedroom. Nausea swirled in his stomach, and he swallowed back bile as he inched closer and closer, praying Alan and Basil could keep the monstrous owl busy long enough to reach the dagger.

“Alan, no!” Basil cried out. Dorian ventured a look over his shoulder and realized in horror that Alan had stopped moving. Desperately, he shoved his hand against the wall as he struggled to stand, trying to find a handhold that would allow him to pull himself to his feet. There was still so much farther to go.

The owl gave another screech, and there was Harry once more, pinning Basil to the floor. “You know, old boy, you’re becoming a real pain in the ass,” he growled, wrapping his hands around the man’s throat. Basil’s eyes widened as he tried to pry Harry’s hands from his windpipe, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

“I thought a lot about how I was going to kill you,” Harry sneered, his face inches from Basil’s. “I wanted to let Dorian do it.” Harry grinned, horrid and cruel. “I played around with different ideas for a while, but I finally settled on whispering, ever so softly, that the whole affair with the portrait was your fault. After all, where would he be now if you had never painted it?” His eyes glazed over, as if recalling a strange and wonderful dream. “I can see it now. He would have stabbed you for the misery you inflicted upon him, just so he could watch you bleed out on the floor. He would have relished it. Watching you die would have been a cathartic experience for him.”

Basil tried to gasp for breath, but no air would come. His face was beginning to turn purple.

“But fuck it,” Harry spat as he tightened his grip. “I’m ending this right now, by watching the life leave your eyes while you lay here, gasping for breath like a dying fish.”

Basil whimpered as his hands began to slip from Harry’s wrists.

Suddenly, Harry gasped and coughed hard, leaving a dark splatter of blood dripping down his mouth and staining his shirt. Behind him, Dorian pulled the dagger from his back and shoved him away, where he crumpled in a heap. Keeping the dagger close, the lad helped Basil sit up, gasping and sputtering for breath.

“I’m here, my love, I’m here,” he murmured, holding him close. “Just try to breathe slowly.”

Basil lifted his head, eyes heavy, and he gasped. “Dorian,” he croaked, and pointed behind the lad.

Dorian turned and saw Harry was struggling to his knees. Placing a gentle hand on his lover’s arm, he said firmly, “I will finish this, darling.” He stood, albeit shakily, and turned to face Harry where he was kneeling and gasping for breath.

“You…bastard,” he growled, spitting out the blood that was slowly filling his lungs. “You pathetic child. I could have given you everything you have ever wanted.”

Dorian stared in what almost looked like pity at the horrid creature before him, so twisted by selfish desire and false enlightenment. He shook his head and said, “You are a fool, Harry. Can’t you see? I already have everything I want.” In one quick motion, he slid the blade across his throat.

Harry choked and pressed his hands to the wound, trying in vain to stop the blood that was spilling out between his fingers. He cast a final, hateful gaze at the lad before finally collapsing into the rapidly growing pool of blood.

Dorian stood there for several moments, watching Harry twitch and gasp, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at Basil, who was staring at him with a heavy look of determination. “Dorian,” he said weakly. “Let me see the dagger.”

Dorian handed the dagger to the man, who stumbled to where the yellow book lay, tattered and broken near the entryway. Closing the book, he sank the blade into the cover.

From his bloody heap on the floor, Harry let out a sickening gurgle. Slowly, his skin began to wrinkle and peel, and his hair turned a ghastly shade of white. Where a man of perhaps forty years once lay, there was now a haggard, withered pile of skin and bones.

At the same time, Dorian gasped and fell to his knees, a strange, almost painful sensation seizing his body, as if a small flame was growing inside him.

“Dorian!” Basil cried out in concern, and fell to his knees beside the lad. “What is happening? Are you alright?”

The young man lifted his head, and Basil gasped at the sight of him. Gone was the lad’s smooth, boyish face. In its place was a coarse stubble, nearly a full grown beard. In addition, his hair was now much longer, falling almost to his shoulders. He no longer looked like a boy. He was a man, fully grown.

“Dorian,” Basil murmured in wonder, reaching out to caress the stubble that dusted his cheek. “I…I believe it worked. You appeared to have aged, roughly two years.”

Dorian looked awestricken, and he reached up to run his fingers across the beard that clung to his jaw. “My god,” he whispered. “You are right. My soul has returned to me.”

Basil lit up with joy. Without a word, he pulled the young man close and held him tight in his arms. “My boy,” he murmured.

Dorian gave a weak chuckle. “I am no longer certain if that is true.”

Nearby, there was a groan, and Basil’s eyes widened. “My god,” he said in horror. “Alan.” The two men turned their attention on the wounded man, who was struggling to sit up. Together, they helped him to his feet.

“I…what happened?” Alan groaned, pressing a hand to his head. “Where has Harry gone?” He met Dorian’s gaze and gasped in surprise. “Dorian, is that you? My god, how long was I unconscious?”

Dorian chuckled. “Only several minutes, my friend,” he assured him. “It would appear killing Harry was, indeed, the action needed to return my soul to myself.”

“Speaking of which,” Basil interjected, casting a disgusted look at the withered mess on the floor. “What is to be done with him? It would not be wise to leave him here.”

“No, I suppose not,” Alan sighed. “I will deal with him. Just give me an hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO JUST GOT MURDERED.


	10. Like Mist On A Lake

Scotland Yard was no stranger to the occasionally mystifying case, but in all his twenty years on the force, The Sergeant had never experienced anything like the disappearance of Dorian Gray. He arrived with his officers at Mr. Gray’s estate roughly a quarter past eight P.M, having been kept busy with a particularly gruesome murder in the West End, and was immediately met with a flurry of worried neighbors. They told tales of shouting and other such loud noises, and all the signs pointed to a scuffle of sorts. Giving his thanks, The Sergeant instructed his officers to clear the scene, and he headed toward the front door, already beginning to piece together just what had happened here. He, of course, was aware of Mr. Gray’s notoriety, and he figured the young man had simply had some sort of gathering that had gotten out of hand.

However, as he found the front door unlocked, he quickly realized this was not the sight of a mere scuffle. He looked upon the parlor with shock, ruined as if an all-out brawl had occurred, furniture disturbed and overturned, the floor and walls stained with what appeared to be blood. It was immediately evident that this was the scene of a gruesome crime, and he ordered his officers to search the rest of the house. After careful examination, it was decided that the altercation had begun upstairs in the storeroom, made evident by the red handprint that clung to the doorframe. The room itself appeared more or less unaffected, other than an overturned portrait in the corner. Once it was set right, The Sergeant noticed a handful of jagged scratches marring the admittedly lovely face. Despite himself, he thought it was a shame for such an exquisite piece to be damaged in such an irreparable way, but could it be the reason for the blood that had been spilled?

Back downstairs, he noticed the bedroom was in a similarly miserable state as the parlor, blood staining the floor in some places, and the window had been pushed halfway open. He did not miss the smear of blood against the sill, and decided it had been used, or attempted to be used, as a means of escape. However, the success of such a route appeared to have been nonexistent, as neither The Sergeant nor his officers could find any evidence of a pursuit in the backyard.

At a loss for what to think, The Sergeant gave the residence one final sweep before noticing an odd sight in the parlor. There, by the coffee table, lay a book, left nearly unrecognizable. It had been torn to shreds, and the title was left illegible by a large gouge in the cover. He decided that, for reasons he could not begin to understand, the book had been stabbed clean through with some sort of knife. The ferocity in which the book had been attacked led him to believe it played a key role in the altercation that had taken place here, and he decided to bag it as evidence.

Back outside, it appeared that, despite the commotion, no one had noticed anyone entering or leaving the premises. With Mr. Gray unaccounted for, and very few leads to pursue, The Sergeant decided to question his known acquaintances. If nothing else, they could perhaps offer insight into Mr. Gray’s current whereabouts. He began the next morning with Lord Henry Wotton, who he understood to be his closest friend and confidant. However, it was Lord Henry’s wife who greeted him at the door, informing him that she had not seen her husband in roughly twenty-four hours.

“He left early yesterday morning,” she revealed, appearing unconcerned by her husband’s absence. “Well, not really early, but early for him, I assure you. He does not often tell me where he goes or what he is up to, but he appeared to be very excited. He said he was off to see his dear friend, Dorian Gray.” She took a sip of her tea, looking thoughtful. “It is certainly strange. The two of them had not spoken to each other for about a week or so. I had assumed they had had a quarrel of some sort.”

“Pardon me, Lady Henry,” The Sergeant interjected, as gently as he could, “but would you have any reason to believe your husband would wish harm on Mr. Gray?”

“Goodness, no,” Lady Wotton assured with a laugh. “Harry worships the boy. He practically treats him like a son. Why, he spoils him with all sorts of presents. Books, mostly, but every now and then he will gift him art pieces. Paintings, sculptures, that sort of thing.”

This caught The Sergeant’s attention. “Books, you say? Tell me, did Lord Henry ever give Mr. Gray a yellow book? Forgive me, I do not know the title, but I believe it was a French book.”

Lady Wotton furrowed her brow in concentration. “I am sorry, but I do not remember a yellow book. Perhaps he kept it in his study. He never lets anyone in there, not even me. It is ‘holy ground’, so he says, but you are certainly welcome to search it if you believe it will be useful.”

After a quick inspection of the study in question, The Sergeant found nothing of great importance, and he thanked Lady Henry for her help before taking his leave. Despite the lack of evidence in the study, he was certain that Lord Henry Wotton was a person of interest. He could not ignore that he had gone missing roughly the same time as Mr. Gray, however, whether or not he was the victim or the assailant remained to be seen.

He decided his next step would be to see Mr. Basil Hallward, another known acquaintance of Mr. Gray. The Sergeant was, of course, aware of the rumors currently surrounding the artist, and of the continued friendship and support Mr. Gray was seen to have provided him. The Sergeant believed himself to be of open mind and open heart, and he was determined to purge all he had heard of the artist from his mind, viewing him solely as a person of interest. Seeing as Mr. Hallward was also known to be on friendly terms with Lord Henry Wotton, he decided to go to his estate as soon as possible.

However, when he arrived, it was the artist’s servant who answered the door, looking stunned and horribly out of place. “Mr. Hallward,” he murmured, his eyes looking hazy and sad. “Oh, he is gone, sir. Long gone, I am afraid. He left town very early yesterday morning.”

“Gone, you say?” The timeline seemed suspicious, given that this was the same morning Lord Henry Wotton had gone to see Mr. Gray, and so he pressed the man. “Are you certain Mr. Hallward was leaving town? Was he not, perhaps, going to see Mr. Gray?”

The servant, Parker, straightened his back. “I am well aware of the rumors surrounding Mr. Basil Hallward as of late, Sergeant, and I am not sure I appreciate what you are implying. My old sir woke me at an early hour to tell me that he was leaving. He did not say where, and I did not ask why. Perhaps he had grown tired of being treated like some sort of pervert.”

The Sergeant’s eyes widened, startled by the servant’s brazen tone. He thought he seemed awfully defensive of Mr. Hallward’s character, and he could not help but feel suspicious. “You say he is your ‘old’ employer,” he noted. “ Has he fired you? You seem awfully defensive of a man who has left you destitute.”

Parker shook his head. “Forgive me, Sergeant, but you have it wrong. I am the farthest thing from destitute. You see, before Mr. Hallward departed, he left me his estate. I am quite rich, and I intend to bring my family here to live.”

“He has given you his estate?” The Sergeant was shocked. “His money, his house, everything? Why on Earth would he do such a thing?”

The servant raised his chin, staring The Sergeant in the eye. “Because Basil Hallward is a good man,” he stated. “Far better than most.”

At a loss for what to say, he bid the man good day and left him to his newfound fortune. As he considered his story, he supposed it made sense for a social pariah such as Mr. Hallward to flee the prying eyes of London. However, it felt like too great a coincidence that he happened to disappear around the same time as Mr. Gray and Lord Henry Wotton. It was far-fetched, certainly, but something told him that all three of the disappearances were connected somehow.

Finally, after several days without a lead, his officers informed him that Mr. Gray’s servant had been located, and he flew to the slums of the West End, to a single-story brick house that appeared barely held together. As soon as the door opened, The Sergeant commenced questioning the man. Where was Mr. Gray? Had he been the victim of a terrible crime, or had he been the one to commit it?

“Monsieur was acting peculiar that morning,” the servant, Victor, answered. “The night before, as well. He came home earlier than usual, looking very preoccupied, and ordered me to do math for him.”

“Math?”

“Oui, monsieur, math. He wanted me to divide up his estate into three parts. I told him I am not well versed in such endeavors, but he was adamant. ‘I have very little time,’ he told me.”

“For what purpose did he have you divide up his estate?”

“Well, one-third of it was arranged to go to a lady around these parts, a theatre woman of some sort. Tres mal, I am told, but I myself have never been to this theatre, so who is to say? Monsieur, however, used to frequent this theatre some years ago. Almost every night, he would go to these shows, but then, you see, he had a heartbreak. I am unsure of the details, as monsieur does not often confide in me, but he had not mentioned this particular theatre again until now.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “He said something funny to me, then. He looked at me, his eyes very large and sad, and he said, ‘It won’t bring her back, but perhaps it will begin to make things right.’ I asked him what he meant, but he merely shook his head.”

The Sergeant scribbled furiously in his notepad, brow furrowed. “I see. Any idea how he came to know the woman he gave the money to? Is she an actress?”

“The mother, I think, of one of the actresses,” Victor answered. “You must forgive me, monsieur. He had not gone to this theatre in three years or so. I do not know why he would speak of it now.”

“And what about the other two thirds of the estate? Where did that go?”

Victor stood up straighter, looking excited. “Well, monsieur kept one third for himself. He packed a few bags, and said this: ‘If everything goes well tomorrow, you may very well never see me again.’”

“It sounds as though Mr. Gray expected some kind of trouble.”

“You must understand, monsieur, that his behavior was unusual, but his paranoia was not. Monsieur has been unwell for some years now. He slept all day, and stayed up all night. He would go out, and it would be hours before he returned. Sometimes, the sun was already in the sky by the time he would come home. His mind was troubled, you see, and he became frequently nervous.”

The Sergeant tapped his pen against his notepad. “And what about the final third?” he wondered. “Did he keep that as well?”

“No, monsieur. He gave it to me.”

“To you?” The Sergeant’s eyes widened, remembering his conversation with Parker several days ago. “Why is that?”

“I had been running errands for monsieur that whole morning. When I returned, he handed me an envelope. ‘For your troubles,’ he told me. ‘I have not been a pleasant employer, and for that I apologize. Now, take this, and get as far away from here as possible.’”

“’This’ being the money, I assume?”

“Oui, monsieur. Roughly ten thousand pounds.” Victor smiled, looking star-struck. “Certainly more money than I had ever seen, let alone held in my hands.

“It sounds like Mr. Gray was bracing himself for a fight.”

“I can not say, monsieur. He looked frightened, more frightened than I have ever seen him, and that is saying something, monsieur. I trusted his fear, and I left. I only tried to return a few days ago, to see monsieur’s estate taped off like a crime scene.”

“A crime scene, indeed,” The Sergeant mused, and he left Victor, who planned to gather his belongings and return to France. The Sergeant attempted to contact the theatre woman, hoping perhaps Mr. Gray had left with her some way to contact him, but the theatre owner informed him that she had taken Mr. Gray’s gift and moved to Australia to be with her son. Weeks went by without a single lead, and he felt certain that, wherever they were, there was nothing left of Dorian Gray and Lord Henry Wotton but two corpses hidden away in a damp cellar. Finally, in a fit of desperation, he decided to question the only other person who was known to meet with Mr. Gray semi-regularly.

“How may I be of service, Sergeant?” asked Alan Campbell, answering the door with a bright, startled expression.

“Goodness, sir,” The Sergeant mused, taking in the various cuts and bruises on the man’s face. “You look as if you’ve had a terrible accident.”

“Indeed,” he answered, adjusting his spectacles without meeting his eyes. “Horseback riding. I have some friends up North, you see. They thought I would take to it. Obviously, I did not.”

The Sergeant knew Mr. Campbell to be a nervous individual, reserved and often hard to understand. He could see how his injuries could render him self-conscious, so he decided to drop the subject. “I am here in regards to the disappearance of Dorian Gray and Lord Henry Wotton these several weeks past. May I come in?”

“Certainly, sir.” Alan took a step back. “I will put on some tea. Mind your shoes.”

Once the refreshments were served, The Sergeant commenced his questioning. “Am I correct in understanding that Mr. Gray frequented your home regularly?”

“Yes, sir.” He adjusted his spectacles again, a nervous habit, it would seem. “You see, he is a hungry fellow, in search of every bit of knowledge he can acquire. His eye turned to science, and, seeing as I am known for being a man of science, he came to me. I am rather fond of my books, however, and I only ever permitted him to read them here.”

“It would seem you are not the only one loaning books to Mr. Gray.”

Alan stared at The Sergeant without blinking. “I would imagine not. He is a rather popular individual.”

“Indeed. Mr. Campbell, are you familiar with Lord Henry Wotton?”

Alan reached for his tea, and after a long sip, he answered. “Only by reputation. We have never been properly acquainted. However, I am to understand that two were rather close.”

“It would appear so. He loaned him a book. I was unable to obtain the title, but it is a small, yellow book. French, I believe. Are you familiar with it?”

Just then, a look passed across Mr. Campbell’s face. The Sergeant blinked, and it was gone, replaced with a cool, blank expression. “I am afraid not,” he said finally. “I keep my reading focused specifically on the science of the natural world.”

The Sergeant pressed, but the chemist did not reveal any useful information, and so, finally, he was forced to take his leave. To his dismay, it would appear that the trail had gone cold, and Dorian Gray, Lord Henry Wotton, and even Basil Hallward had evaporated into the air like mist over a lake. It was not often in his nature to let a case die, but he could not help but believe that, perhaps, they simply were not meant to be found.

* * *

Alan waited until The Sergeant was long gone before grabbing his coat. Outside, he hailed a cab, and leaned his head back as it took him slowly but surely out of the city, to a small railway station just North of London. Roughly four hundred and fifty miles passed in a blur outside his window, his mind travelling just as fast. Once he reached his destination, he hailed a ride to a small village just north of Melrose, tucked quietly by the ocean. It was half past four when he knocked on a sturdy oak door.

Taking a step back, he examined the cottage. It was of comfortable size, sat firmly on the outskirts of town, and surrounded by woods. The perfect place to disappear.

It was Basil who answered the door, and he smiled, relief written plainly on his face. “Ah, there you are,” he said, in lieu of a greeting. “Please, come in. Dorian and I were growing worried. We were expecting you at two.”

Alan smiled and removed his coat. “Yes, forgive me,” he apologized. “I was…unavoidably detained. I will explain later.”

Basil nodded and led him to the sitting room. The house had a cozy feeling, walls of stone and thick rugs to warm the floor. It was certainly different than what the three of them were used to, but that was the point.

With Basil’s back turned, Alan examined his friend. He looked freer, as if he were much more at ease in his own skin, even as a dark bruise appeared from beneath his collar. “You appear to be healing nicely,” he commented.

Basil frowned, tentatively running his fingers along the large bruise that encircled his neck. “Outwardly, yes. The doctor in town believes the scratches will scar.” He pointed at his face, angry, jagged lines stretching from his brow to his jaw. “I told her I fell off of a horse.”

“I gave the same excuse,” Alan said, gesturing to his own array of scratches. Glancing around the room, he frowned. “Where might Dorian be?”

Basil sighed, taking a seat on a large sofa situated by the fireplace. “He was growing anxious over your absence, so he decided to take a walk. He is rather taken by the countryside, and has been combing the woods for the various plants and herbs he read about in the book you sent him.” He smiled fondly. “Thank you, by the way. He loves it.”

Alan smiled, taking a seat across from him. “It was no trouble, my friend.” After a pause, he lowered his voice. “How are you, Basil? Truly?”

Basil rubbed his hand across the uninjured side of his face, looking tired. “I am coming along well enough,” he answered. “But it has been harder for Dorian. He is anxious, and he gets terrible nightmares. He said it helps, having me here with him, but I do not know.” He shook his head. “It will take time, I think, before he will let his guard down again.”

Just then, the back door slammed shut, and in walked the man in question. Immediately, Alan noticed the large bruise that encircled his neck. Otherwise, he seemed mostly healed from their harrowing ordeal. Although, he could not help but note the dark circles under his eyes, betraying his lack of sleep.

At the sight of his friend, however, his eyes lit up. “Alan!” he greeted, striding up to the man to embrace him. “How wonderful to see you. Basil and I were beginning to worry.”

Alan sighed and returned to his seat, while Dorian took a seat beside Basil on the sofa. “Yes, I do apologize for that,” he assured. “I wanted to wait until you were here before explaining. I had to shake of The Sergeant earlier this morning.”

Basil tensed, and Dorian frowned. “Did he give you much trouble?” the lad wondered, looking nervous.

“Not at all,” Alan assured. “He did not appear to believe I would have any valuable knowledge. I do believe that he only came to me in an act of desperation.”

“Well, that is certainly some good news,” Basil said, looking relieved. “So, then, it would appear we were successful in destroying what was left of our lives in London.”

“It would appear so, yes.” It was certainly a victory, however, Dorian appeared less than thrilled. Before Harry had wormed his way into his life, he had liked the person he had been, and the life that he had had. What was he meant to do now, in a small village surrounded by ocean and trees? Who was Dorian Gray, without his vast wealth and social status?

Basil noticed the lad’s worried look, and he squeezed his hand. “Whatever is next for us, we shall discover it together.”

Yes, this sounded like something Dorian could live with. He cast a grateful glance to his love, and stood. “Indeed. We have come this far, and there is farther yet to go. How about we all go for a walk? It is a bit chillier up here than in London, but the air is fresh, and the sun is warm.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea,” Alan said warmly. “I was so hoping to see how far this little village has come since I was last here.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to hearing just how you discovered this place,” Basil said as they gathered their coats. “Truly, it is like a little slice of heaven. The people here, I have never met anyone like them.”

“It is a very long story,” Alan answered. “One I will be very happy to tell you one day.” The trio strolled leisurely through town, and everywhere they went, they were greeted by one person or another. It was clear that the two lovers had been readily accepted by the townspeople, just as Alan had hoped.

At the edge of town, they came across a large lake, which Dorian claimed the local children skated on when it froze over. As the three walked along the lake’s shore, Dorian held back a bit, letting Basil and Alan walk ahead as they chatted about the local shops and markets.

The long, spiny fingers of winter had finally loosened its grip, and the sun warmed his face as the water lapped lazily against the shore. Pausing, he bent over to examine his reflection in the water. Eyes, heavy and tired, and there, beneath his collar, the angry purple bruise that encircled his throat. However, he was happy to notice the light beard he had trimmed just the day before was steadily growing back in. In truth, he had been worried that Basil would not like it, but he smiled at the memory of his laughter when he had tried to kiss his neck. Yes, Basil had grown quite fond of it, but if he were being honest, and he often tried to be, he kept the beard because it was proof that he was a real person, ever changing, and ever growing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends...Dorian and Basil find their own little slice of heaven. One can't help but wonder, however, how Alan came to know about such a village in the first place...


End file.
